f\ 


I 

i 


PLAIN  TALES 
FROM  THE  HILLS 

Rudyard  Kipling 

New   York 

Knight  &  Brown 

1898 


I 

i 


'd 


H?SH  77115 

?3 

CONTENTS. 


Lispeth  5 

Three  and — an  Extra 12 

Thrown  Away 17 

Miss  Yougal's  Sais 28 

"Yoked  with  an  Unbeliever" 35 

False  Dawn 41 

The  Rescue  of  Pluffles 51 

Cupid's  Arrows 58 

His  Chance  in  Life 64 

Watches  of  the  Night 71 

The  Other  Man 78 

Consequences  83 

A  Germ-Destroyer 90 

Kidnapped   96 

In  the  House  of  Suddhoo 102 

His  Wedded  Wife 112 

The  Broken  Link  Handicap 119 

Beyond  the  Pale 125 

In  Error 133 

A  Bank  Fraud 138 

Tods'  Amendment 146 

In  the  Pride  of  his  Youth 153 

Pig  161 

The  Bronckhorst  Divorce-Case 169 

The  Bisara  of  Pooree 176 

A  Friend's  Friend 183 

The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows 190 

The  Story  of  Muhammad  Din 198 

On  the  Strength  of  a  Likeness 202 

Wressley  of  the  Fc  -eign  Office 209 

By  Word  of  Mouth 216 


ii  CONTENTS. 

To  be  Filed  for  Reference 222 

Dray  Wara  Yow  Dee 232 

The  Judgment  of  Dungara 244 

At  Howli  Thana 255 

Gemini   261 

At  Twenty-two 272 

In  Flood  Time 286 

The  Sending  of  Dana  Da 298 

On  the  City  Wall 310 

The  Arrest  of  Lieutenant  Golightly 338 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


LISPETH. 

Look,  you  have  cast  out  Love!     What  Gods  are  these 

You  bid  me  please? 
The  Three  in  One,  the  One  in  Three?    Not  so! 

To  my  own  Gods  I  go. 
It  may  be  they  shall  give  me  greater  ease 
Than  your  cold  Christ  and  tangled  Trinities. 

—The  Convert. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  Sonoo,  a  Hill-man  of  the 
Himalayas,  and  Jadeh  his  wife.  One  year  their  maize 
failed,  and  two  bears  spent  the  night  in  their  only  opium 
poppy-field  just  above  the  Sutlej  Valley  on  the  Kotgarh 
side;  so,  next  season,  they  turned  Christian,  and  brought 
their  baby  to  the  Mission  to  be  baptized.  The  Kotgarh 
Chaplain  christened  her  Elizabeth,  and  "Lispeth"  is  the 
Hill  or  pahari  pronunciation. 

Later,  cholera  came  into  the  Kotgarh  Valley  and  car- 
ried ofif  Sonoo  and  Jadeh,  and  Lispeth  became  half  ser- 
vant, half  companion,  to  the  wife  of  the  then  Chaplain  of 
Kotgarh.  This  was  after  the  reign  of  the  Moravian  mis- 
sionaries in  that  place,  but  before  Kotgarh  had  quite  for- 
gotten her  title  of  "Mistress  of  the  Northern  Hills." 

Whether  Christianity  improved  Lispeth,  or  whether 
the  gods  of  her  own  people  would  have  done  as  much  for 
her  under  any  circumstances,  I  do  not  know;  but  she 
grew  very  lovely.  When  a  Hill-girl  grows  lovely  she 
is  worth  traveling  fifty  miles  over  bad  ground  to  look 


6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Upon.  Lispeth  had  a  Greek  face — one  of  those  faces  people 
paint  so  often,  and  see  so  seldom.  She  was  of  a  pale,  ivory- 
color,  and,  for  her  race,  extremely  tall.  Also,  she  pos- 
sessed eyes  that  were  wonderful;  and,  had  she  not  been 
dressed  in  the  abominable  print-cloths  affected  by  Mis- 
sions, you  would,  meeting  her  on  the  hillside  unexpected- 
ly, have  thought  her  the  original  Diana  of  the  Romans 
going  out  to  slay. 

Lispeth  took  to  Christianity  readily,  and  did  not  aban- 
don it  when  she  reached  womanhood,  as  do  some  Hill- 
girls,  Her  own  people  hated  her  because  she  had,  they 
said,  become  a  white  woman  and  washed  herself  daily; 
and  the  Chaplain's  wife  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
her.  One  cannot  ask  a  stately  goddess,  five  foot  ten  in 
her  shoes,  to  clean  plates  and  dishes.  She  played  with 
the  Chaplain's  children  and  took  classes  in  the  Sunday 
School,  and  read  all  the  books  in  the  house,  and  grew 
more  and  more  beautiful,  like  the  Princesses  in  fairy  tales. 
The  Chaplain's  wife  said  that  the  girl  ought  to  take  ser- 
vice in  Simla  as  a  nurse  or  something  "genteel."  But  Lis- 
peth did  not  want  to  take  service.  She  was  very  happy 
where  she  was. 

When  travelers — •there  were  not  many  in  those  years 
— came  in  to  Kotgarh,  Lispeth  used  to  lock  herself  into 
her  own  room  for  fear  they  might  take  her  away  to  Simla, 
or  out  into  the  unknown  world. 

One  day,  a  few  months  after  she  was  seventeen  years 
old,  Lispeth  went  out  for  a  walk.  She  did  not  walk  in 
the  manner  of  English  ladies — a  mile  and  a  half  out,  with 
a  carriage-ride  back  again.  She  covered  between  twenty 
and  thirty  miles  in  her  little  constitutionals,  all  about  and 
about,  between  Kotgarh  and  Narkunda.  This  time  she 
came  back  at  full  dusk,  stepping  down  the  breakneck  de- 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  7 

scent  into  Kotgarh  with  something  heavy  in  her  arms. 
The  Chaplain's  wife  was  dozing  in  the  drawing-room 
when  Lispeth  came  in  breathing  heavily  and  very  ex- 
hausted with  her  burden.  Lispeth  put  it  down  on  the 
sofa,  and  said  simply,  "This  is  my  husband.  I  found  him 
on  the  Bagi  Road.  He  has  hurt  himself.  We  will  nurse 
him,  and  when  he  is  well,  your  husband  shall  marry  him 
to  me." 

This  was  the  first  mention  Lispeth  had  ever  made  of 
her  matrimonial  views,  and  the  Chaplain's  wife  shrieked 
with  horror.  However,  the  man  on  the  sofa  needed  atten- 
tion first.  He  was  a  young  Englishman,  and  his  head  had 
been  cut  to  the  bone  by  something  jagged.  Lispeth  said 
she  had  found  him  down  the  hillside,  and  had  brought  him 
in.     He  was  breathing  queerly  and  was  unconscious. 

He  was  put  to  bed  and  tended  by  the  Chaplain,  who 
knew  something  of  medicine;  and  Lispeth  waited  out- 
side the  door  in  case  she  could  be  useful.  She  explained 
to  the  Chaplain  that  this  was  the  man  she  meant  to  marry; 
and  the  Chaplain  and  his  wife  lectured  her  severely  on  the 
impropriety  of  her  conduct.  Lispeth  listened  quietly,  and 
repeated  her  first  proposition.  It  takes  a  great  deal  of 
Christianity  to  wipe  out  uncivilized  Eastern  instincts,  such 
as  falling  in  love  at  first  sight.  Lispeth,  having  found  the 
man  she  worshipped,  did  not  see  why  she  should  keep 
silent  as  to  her  choice.  She  had  no  intention  of  being 
sent  away,  either.  She  was  going  to  nurse  that  English- 
man until  he  was  well  enough  to  marry  her.  This  was 
her  programme. 

After  a  fortnight  of  slight  fever  and  inflammation,  the 
Englishman  recovered  coherence  and  thanked  the  Chap- 
Jain  and  his  wife,  and  Lispeth — especially  Lispeth — for 
their  kindness.     He  was  a  traveler  in  the  East,  he  said — 


8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

they  never  talked  about  "globe-trotters"  in  those  days, 
when  the  P.  &  O.  fleet  was  young  and  small — and  had 
come  from  Dehra  Dun  to  hunt  for  plants  and  butterflies 
among  the  Simla  hills.  No  one  at  Simla,  therefore,  knew 
anything  about  him.  He  fancied  that  he  must  have  fallen 
over  the  clifif  while  reaching  out  for  a  fern  on  a  rotten 
tree-trunk,  and  that  his  coolies  must  have  stolen  his  bag- 
gage and  fled.  He  thought  he  would  go  back  to  Simla 
when  he  was  a  little  stronger.  He  desired  no  more  moun- 
taineering. 

He  made  small  haste  to  get  away,  and  recovered  his 
strength  slowly.  Lispeth  objected  to  being  advised  either 
by  the  Chaplain  or  his  wife ;  therefore  the  latter  spoke  to 
the  Englishman,  and  told  him  how  matters  stood  in  Lis- 
peth's  heart.  He  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  said  it  was 
very  pretty  and  romantic,  but,  as  he  was  engaged  to  a 
girl  at  Home,  he  fancied  that  nothing  would  happen.  Cer- 
tainly he  would  behave  with  discretion.  He  did  that. 
Still  he  found  it  very  pleasant  to  talk  to  Lispeth,  and  walk 
with  Lispeth,  and  say  nice  things  to  her,  and  call  her  pet 
names  while  he  was  getting  strong  enough  to  go  away. 
It  meant  nothing  at  all  to  him,  and  everything  in  the 
world  to  Lispeth.  She  was  very  happy  while  the  fort- 
night lasted,  because  she  had  found  a  man  to  love. 

Being  a  savage  by  birth,  she  took  no  trouble  to  hide 
her  feelings,  and  the  Englishman  was  amused.  When 
he  went  away,  Lispeth  walked  with  him  up  the  Hill,  as  far 
as  Narkunda,  very  troubled  and  very  miserable.  The 
Chaplain's  wife,  being  a  good  Christian  and  disliking  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  fuss  or  scandal — Lispeth  was  be- 
yond her  management  entirely — had  told  the  Englishman 
to  tell  Lispeth  that  he  was  coming  back  to  marry  her. 
"She  is  but  a  child  you  know,  and,  I  fear,  at  heart  a 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  9 

heathen,"  said  the  Chaplain's  wife.  So  all  the  twelve  miles 
up  the  Hill  the  Englishman,  with  his  arm  round  Lispeth's 
waist,  was  assuring  the  girl  that  he  would  come  back  and 
marry  her;  and  Lispeth  made  him  promise  over  and  over 
again.  She  wept  on  the  Narkunda  Ridge  till  he  had 
passed  out  of  sight  along  the  Muttiani  path. 

Then  she  dried  her  tears  and  went  in  to  Kotgarh  again, 
and  said  to  the  Chaplain's  wife,  "He  will  come  back  and 
marry  me.  He  has  gone  to  his  own  people  to  tell  them 
so."  And  the  Chaplain's  wife  soothed  Lispeth  and  said, 
"He  will  come  back."  At  the  end  of  two  months,  Lispeth 
grew  impatient,  and  was  told  that  the  Englishman  had 
gone  over  the  seas  to  England.  She  knew  where  Eng- 
land was,  because  she  had  read  little  geography  primers; 
but,  of  course,  she  had  no  conception  of  the  nature  of  the 
sea,  being  a  Hill-girl.  There  was  an  old  puzzle-map  of 
the  World  in  the  house.  Lispeth  had  played  with  it  when 
she  was  a  child.  She  unearthed  it  again,  and  put  it  to- 
gether of  evenings,  and  cried  to  herself,  and  tried  to 
imagine  where  her  Englishman  was.  As  she  had  no  ideas 
of  distance  or  steamboats,  her  notions  were  somewhat 
wild.  It  would  not  have  made  the  least  difference  had 
she  been  perfectly  correct;  for  the  Englishman  had  no 
intention  of  coming  back  to  marry  a  Hill-girl.  He  forgot 
all  about  her  by  the  time  he  was  butterfly-hunting  in 
Assam.  He  wrote  a  book  on  the  East  afterwards.  Lis- 
peth's name  did  not  appear  there. 

At  the  end  of  three  months,  Lispeth  made  daily  pilgrim- 
age to  Narkunda  to  see  if  her  Englishman  was  coming 
along  the  road.  It  gave  her  comfort,  and  the  Chaplain's 
wife  finding  her  happier  thought  that  she  was  getting 
over  her  "barbarous  and  most  indelicate  folly."  A  little 
later,  the  walks  ceased  to  help  Lispeth  and  her  temper 


lO  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

grew  very  bad.  The  Chaplain's  wife  thought  this  a  profit- 
able time  to  let  her  know  the  real  state  of  affairs — that 
the  Englishman  had  only  promised  his  love  to  keep  her 
quiet — that  he  had  never  meant  anything,  and  that  it  was 
wrong  and  improper  of  Lispeth  to  think  of  marriage  with 
an  Englishman,  who  was  of  a  superior  clay,  besides  being 
promised  in  marriage  to  a  girl  of  his  own  people.  Lispeth 
said  that  all  this  was  clearly  impossible  because  he  had 
said  he  loved  her,  and  the  Chaplain's  wife  had,  with  her 
own  lips,  asserted  that  the  Englishman  was  coming  back. 

"How  can  what  he  and  you  said  be  untrue?"  asked  Lis- 
peth. 

"We  said  it  as  an  exx:use  to  keep  you  quiet,  child,"  said 
the  Chaplain's  wife. 

"Then  you  have  lied  to  me,"  said  Lispeth,  "you  and 
he?" 

The  Chaplain's  wife  bowed  her  head,  and  said  nothing. 
Lispeth  was  silent  too,  for  a  little  time;  then  she  went 
out  down  the  valley,  and  returned  in  the  dress  of  a  Hill- 
girl — infamously  dirty,  but  without  the  nose-stud  and 
ear-rings.  She  had  her  hair  braided  into  the  long  pigtail, 
helped  out  with  black  thread,  that  Hill-women  wear. 

"I  am  going  back  to  my  own  people,"  said  she.  "You 
have  killed  Lispeth.  There  is  only  left  old  Jadeh's  daugh- 
ter— the  daughter  of  a  pahari  and  the  servant  of  Tarka 
Devi.     You  are  all  liars,  you  English." 

By  the  time  the  Chaplain's  wife  had  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  the  announcement  that  Lispeth  had  'verted  to 
her  mother's  gods,  the  girl  had  gone;  and  she  never  came 
back. 

She  took  to  her  own  unclean  people  savagely,  as  if  to 
make  up  the  arrears  of  the  life  she  had  stepped  out  of; 
and,  in  a  little  time,  she  married  a  woodcutter  who  beat 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 1 

her  after  the  manner  of  paharis,  and  her  beauty  faded 
soon. 

"There  is  no  law  whereby  you  can  account  for  the  vag- 
aries of  the  heathen,"  said  the  Chaplain's  wife,  "and  I  be- 
lieve that  Lispeth  was  always  at  heart  an  infidel."  Seeing 
she  had  been  taken  into  the  Church  of  England  at  the 
mature  age  of  five  weeks,  this  statement  does  not  do  credit 
to  the  Chaplain's  wife. 

Lispeth  was  a  very  old  woman  when  she  died.  She  had 
always  a  perfect  command  of  English,  and  when  she  was 
sufficiently  drunk,  could  sometimes  be  induced  to  tell  the 
story  of  her  first  love-affair. 

It  was  hard  then  to  realize  that  the  bleared,  wrinkled 
creature,  exactly  like  a  wisp  of  charred  rag,  could  ever 
have  been  "Lispeth  of  the  Kotgarh  Mission." 


12  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THREE  AND AN  EXTRA. 

When  halter  and  heel-ropes  are  slipped,  do  not  give  chase 
with  sticks  but  with  gram.— Punjabi  Proverb. 

After  marriage  arrives  a  reaction,  sometimes  a  big, 
sometimes  a  little  one ;  but  it  comes  sooner  or  later,  and 
must  be  tided  over  by  both  parties  if  they  desire  the  rest 
of  their  lives  to  go  with  the  current. 
*  In  the  case  of  the  Cusack-Bremmils  this  reaction  did 
not  set  in  till  the  third  year  after  the  wedding.  Bremmil 
was  hard  to  hold  at  the  best  of  times;  but  he  was  a  beauti- 
ful husband  until  the  baby  died  and  Mrs.  Bremmil  wore 
black,  and  grew  thin,  and  mourned  as  though  the  bottom 
of  the  Universe  had  fallen  out.  Perhaps  Bremmil  ought 
to  have  comforted  her.  He  tried  to  do  so,  but  the  more 
he  comforted  the  more  Mrs.  Bremmil  grieved,  and,  conse- 
quently, the  more  uncomfortable  grew  Bremmil.  The 
fact  was  that  they  both  needed  a  tonic.  And  they  got  it. 
Mrs.  Bremmil  can  afford  to  laugh  now,  but  it  was  no 
laughing  matter  to  her  at  the  time. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  appeared  on  the  horizon;  and  where 
she  existed  was  fair  chance  of  trouble.  At  Simla  her  by- 
name was  the  "Stormy  Petrel."  She  had  won  that  title 
five  times  to  my  own  certain  knowledge.  She  was  a  little, 
brown,  thin,  almost  .skinny,  woman,  with  big,  rolling, 
violet-blue  eyes,  and  the  sweetest  manners  in  the  world. 
You  had  only  to  mention  her  name  at  afternoon  teas  for 
every  woman  in  the  room  to  rise  up,  and  call  her  not 
blessed.  She  was  clever,  witty,  brilliant,  and  sparkling 
beyond  most  of  her  kind;  but  possessed  of  inany  devils  of 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  1 3 

malice  and  mischievousness.     She  could  be  nice,  though, 
even  to  her  own  sex.     But  that  is  another  story. 

Bremmil  went  off  at  score  after  the  baby's  death  and 
the  general  discomfort  that  followed,  and  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
annexed  him.  She  took  no  pleasure  in  hiding  her  cap- 
tives. She  annexed  him  publicly,  and  saw  that  the  public 
saw  it.  He  rode  with  her,  and  walked  with  her,  and 
talked  with  her,  and  picnicked  with  her,  and  tiffined  at 
Peliti's  with  her,  till  people  put  up  their  eyebrows  and 
said,  "Shocking."  Mrs.  Bremmil  stayed  at  home  turning 
over  the  dead  baby's  frocks  aod  crying  into  the  empty  cra- 
dle. She  did  not  care  to  do  anything  else.  But  some  eight 
dear,  affectionate  lady-friends  explained  the  situation  at 
length  to  her  in  case  she  should  miss  the  cream  of  it.  Mrs. 
Bremmil  listened  quietly,  and  thanked  them  for  their 
good  offices.  She  was  not  as  clever  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee, 
but  she  was  no  fool.  She  kept  her  own  counsel,  and  did 
not  speak  to  Bremmil  of  what  she  had  heard.  This  is 
worth  remembering.  Speaking  to,  or  crying  over,  a  hus- 
band never  did  any  good  yet. 

When  Bremmil  was  at  home,  which  was  not  often,  he 
was  more  affectionate  than  usual;  and  that  showed  his 
hand.  The  affection  was  forced  partly  to  soothe  his  own 
conscience  and  partly  to  soothe  Mrs.  Bremmil.  It  failed 
in  both  regards. 

Then  "the  A.-D.-C.  in  Waiting  was  commanded  by 
Their  Excellencies,  Lord  and  Lady  Lytton,  to  invite  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Cusack-Bremmil  to  Peterhoff  en  July  26  at  9:30 
p.  m." — "Dancing"  in  the  bottom-left-hand  corner. 

"I  can't  go,"  said  Mrs.  Bremmil,  "it  is  too  soon  after 
poor  little  Florrie  .  .  .  but  it  need  not  stop  you, 
Tom." 

She  meant  what  she  said  then^  and  Bremmil  said  that 


14  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

he  would  go  just  to  put  in  an  appearance.  Here  he 
spoke  the  thing  which  was  not;  and  Mrs.  Bremmil  knew 
it.  She  guessed — a  woman's  guess  is  much  more  accu- 
rate than  a  man's  certainty — that  he  had  meant  to  go 
from  the  first,  and  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  She  sat  down 
to  think,  and  the  outcome  of  her  thoughts  was  that  the 
memory  of  a  dead  child  was  worth  considerably  less  than 
the  affections  of  a  living  husband.  She  made  her  plan 
and  staked  her  all  upon  it.  In  that  hour  she  discovered 
that  she  knew  Tom  Bremmil  thoroughly,  and  this  knowl- 
edge she  acted  on. 

"Tom,"  said  she,  'T  shall  be  dining  out  at  the  Long- 
mores'  on  the  evening  of  the  26th.  You'd  better  dine  at 
the  Club." 

This  saved  Bremmil  from  making  an  excuse  to  get  away 
and  dine  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  so  he  was  grateful,  and  felt 
small  and  mean  at  the  same  time — which  was  wholesome. 
Bremmil  left  the  house  at  five  for  a  ride.  About  half- 
past  five  in  the  evening  a  large  leather-covered  basket 
came  in  from  Phelps's  for  Mrs.  Bremmil.  She  was  a 
woman  who  knew  how  to  dress;  and  she  had  not  spent 
a  week  on  designing  that  dress  and  having  it  gored,  and 
hemmed,  and  herring-boned,  and  tucked  and  rucked  (or 
whatever  the  terms  are),  for  nothing.  It  was  a  gorgeous 
dress — slight  mourning.  I  can't  describe  it,  but  it  was 
what  The  Queen  calls  "a  creation" — a  thing  that  hit  you 
straight  between  the  eyes  and  made  you  gasp.  She  had 
not  much  heart  for  what  she  was  going  to  do ;  but  as  she 
glanced  at  the  long  mirror  she  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  she  had  never  looked  so  well  in  her  life. 
She  was  a  large  blonde  and,  when  she  chose,  carried  her- 
self superbly. 

After  the  dinner  at  the  Longmores',  she  went  on  to  the 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 5 

dance — a  little  late — and  encountered  Bremmil  with  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  on  his  arm.  That  made  her  flush,  and  as 
the  men  crowded  round  her  for  dances  she  looked  mag- 
nificent. She  filled  up  all  her  dances  except  three,  and 
those  she  left  blank.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  caught  her  eye 
once ;  and  she  knew  it  was  war — real  war — between  them. 
She  started  handicapped  in  the  struggle,  for  she  had  or- 
dered Bremmil  about  just  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world 
too  much;  and  he  was  beginning  to  resent  it.  Moreover, 
he  had  never  seen  his  wife  look  so  lovely.  He  stared  at 
her  from  doorways,  and  glared  at  her  from  passages  as  she 
went  about  with  her  partners;  and  the  more  he  stared, 
the  more  taken  was  he.  He  could  scarcely  believe  that 
this  was  the  woman  with  the  red  eyes  and  the  black  stufif 
gown  who  used  to  weep  over  the  eggs  at  breakfast. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  did  her  best  to  hold  him  in  play,  but, 
after  two  dances,  he  crossed  over  to  his  wife  and  asked 
for  a  dance. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  come  too  late,  Mister  Bremmil,"  she 
said,  with  her  eyes  twinkling. 

Then  he  begged  her  to  give  him  a  dance,  and,  as  a  great 
favor,  she  allowed  him  the  fifth  waltz.  Luckily  Five 
stood  vacant  on  his  program.  They  danced  it  together, 
and  there  was  a  little  flutter  round  the  room.  Bremmil 
had  a  sort  of  a  notion  that  his  wife  could  dance,  but  he 
never  knew  she  danced  so  divinely.  At  the  end  of  that 
waltz  he  asked  for  another — as  a  favor,  not  as  a  right; 
and  Mrs.  Bremmil  said,  "Show  me  your  program,  dear!" 
He  showed  it  as  a  naughty  little  schoolboy  hands  up 
contraband  sweets  to  a  master.  There  was  a  fair  sprink- 
ling of  "H"  on  it,  besides  "H"  at  supper.  Mrs.  Bremmil 
said  nothing,  but  she  smiled  contemptuously,  ran  her 
pencil  through   Seven   and    Nine — two   "H's" — and  re- 


l6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

turned  the  card  with  her  own  name  written  above — a  pet 
name  that  only  she  and  her  husband  used.  Then  she 
shook  her  finger  at  him,  and  said  laughing,  "Oh  you  silly, 
silly  boy!" 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  heard  that,  and — she  owned  as  much — 
felt  she  had  the  worst  of  it.  Bremmil  accepted  Seven 
and  Nine  gratefully.  They  danced  Seven,  and  sat  out 
Nine  in  one  of  the  little  tents.  What  Bremmil  said  and 
what  Mrs.  Bremmil  did  is  no  concern  of  any  one. 

When  the  band  struck  up  "The  Roast  Beef  of  Old 
England,"  the  two  went  out  into  the  verandah,  and  Brem- 
mil began  looking  for  his  wife's  dandy  (this  was  before 
'rickshaw  days)  while  she  went  into  the  cloak-room.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  came  up  and  said,  "You  take  me  in  to  supper, 
I  think,  Mr.  Bremmil?"  Bremmil  turned  red  and  looked 
foolish,  "Ah — h'm!  I'm  going  home  with  my  wife,  Mrs. 
Hauksbee.  I  think  there  has  been  a  little  mistake."  Be- 
ing a  man,  he  spoke  as  though  Mrs.  Hauksbee  were  en- 
tirely responsible. 

Mrs.  Bremmil  came  out  of  the  cloak-room  in  a  swans- 
down  cloak  with  a  white  "cloud"  round  her  head.  She 
looked  radiant;  and  she  had  a  right  to. 

The  couple  went  of?  into  the  darkness  together,  Brem- 
mil riding  very  close  to  the  dandy. 

Then  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  to  me — she  looked  a  trifle 
faded  and  jaded  in  the  lamplight — "Take  my  word  for  it. 
the  silliest  woman  can  manage  a  clever  man;  but  it  needs 
a  very  clever  woman  to  manage  a  fool." 

Then  we  went  in  to  supper. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I7 


THROWN  AWAY. 

And  some  are  sulky,  while  some  will  plunge. 

[So  ho!  Steady!  Stand  still,  you!] 
Some  you  must  gentle,  and  some  you  must  lunge. 

[There!     There!     Who  wants  to  kill  you?] 
Some — there  are  losses  in  every  trade — 
Will  break  their  hearts  ere  bitted  and  made. 
Will  fight  like  fiends  as  the  rope  cuts  hard, 
And  die  dumb-mad  in  the  breaking-yard. 

— Toolungala  Stockyard  Chorus. 

To  rear  a  boy  under  what  parents  call  the  "sheltered 
life  system"  is,  if  the  boy  must  go  into  the  world  and  fend 
for  himself,  not  wise.  Unless  he  be  one  in  a  thousand 
he  has  certainly  to  pass  through  many  unnecessary  trou- 
bles; and  may,  possibly,  come  to  extreme  grief  simply 
from  ignorance  of  the  proper  proportions  of  things. 

'Let  a  puppy  eat  the  soap  in  the  bath-room  or  chew  a 
newly-blacked  boot.  He  chews  and  chuckles  until,  by 
and  by,  he  finds  out  that  the  blacking  and  Old  Brown 
Windsor  make  him  very  sick ;  so  he  argues  that  soap  and 
boots  are  not  wholesome.  Any  old  dog  about  the  house 
will  soon  show  him  the  unwisdom  of  biting  big  dogs' 
ears.  Being  young,  he  remembers  and  goes  abroad,  at 
six  months,  a  well-mannered  little  beast  with  a  chastened 
appetite.  If  he  had  been  kept  away  from  boots,  and  soap, 
and  big  dogs  till  he  came  to  the  trinity  full-grown  and  with 
well  developed  teeth,  consider  how  fearfully  sick  and 
thrashed  he  would  be!  Apply  that  notion  to  the  "shel- 
tered life,"  and  see  how  it  works.     It  does  not  sound 

pretty,  but  it  is  the  better  of  two  evils. 
2 


l8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

There  was  a  Boy  once  who  had  been  brought  up  under 
the  "sheltered  Hfe"  theory;  and  the  theory  killed  him  dead. 
He  stayed  with  his  people  all  his  days,  from  the  hour  he 
was  born  till  the  hour  he  went  into  Sandhurst  nearly  at  the 
top  of  the  list.  He  was  beautifully  taught  in  all  that  wins 
marks  by  a  private  tutor,  and  carried  the  extra  weight  of 
"never  having  given  his  parents  an  hour's  anxiety  in  his 
life."  What  he  learnt  at  Sandhurst  beyond  the  regular 
routine  is  of  no  great  consequence.  He  looked  about 
him,  and  he  found  soap  and  blacking,  so  to  speak,  very 
good.  He  ate  a  little,  and  came  out  of  Sandhurst  not  so 
high  as  he  went  in.  Then  there  was  an  interval  and  a 
scene  with  his  people,  who  expected  much  from  him. 
Next  a  year  of  living  unspotted  from  the  world  in  a 
third-rate  depot  battalion  where  all  the  juniors  were  chil- 
dren and  all  the  seniors  old  women;  and  lastly  he  came 
out  to  India  where  he  was  cut  off  from  the  support  of  his 
parents,  and  had  no  one  to  fall  back  on  in  time  of  trouble 
except  himself. 

Now  India  is  a  place  beyond  all  others  where  one  must 
not  take  things  too  seriously — ^the  mid-day  sun  always  ex- 
cepted. Too  much  work  and  too  much  energy  kill  a  man 
just  as  effectively  as  too  much  assorted  vice  or  too  much 
drink.  Flirtation  does  not  matter,  because  every  one 
is  being  transferred  and  either  you  or  she  leave  the  Sta- 
tion, and  never  return.  Good  work  does  not  matter,  be- 
cause a  man  is  judged  by  his  worst  output  and  another 
man  takes  all  the  credit  of  his  best  as  a  rule.  Bad  work 
does  not  matter,  because  other  men  do  worse  and  incom- 
petents hang  on  longer  in  India  than  anywhere  else. 
Amusements  do  not  matter,  because  you  must  repeat  them 
as  soon  as  you  have  accomplished  them  once,  and  most 
amusements  only  mean  trying  to  win  another  person's 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I9 

money.  Sickness  does  not  matter,  because  it's  all  in  the 
day's  work,  and  if  you  die,  another  man  takes  over  your 
place  and  your  office  in  the  eight  hours  between  death 
and  burial.  Nothing-  matters  except  Home-furlough  and 
acting  allowances,  and  these  only  because  they  are  scarce. 
It  is  a  slack  country  where  all  men  work  with  imperfect 
instruments;  and  the  wisest  thing  is  to  escape  as  soon 
as  ever  you  can  to  some  place  where  amusement  is 
amusement  and  a  reputation  worth  the  having. 

But  this  Boy — the  tale  is  as  old  as  the  Hills — came  out, 
and  took  all  things  seriously.  He  was  pretty  and  was 
petted.  He  took  the  pettings  seriously  and  fretted  over 
women  not  worth  saddling  a  pony  to  call  upon.  He 
found  his  new  free  life  in  India  very  good.  It  does  look 
attractive  in  the  beginning,  from  a  subaltern's  point  of 
view — all  ponies,  partners,  dancing,  and  so  on.  He  tasted 
it  as  the  puppy  tastes  the  soap.  Only  he  came  late  to 
the  eating,  with  a  grown  set  of  teeth.  He  had  no  sense 
of  balance — ^just  like  the  puppy — and  could  not  under- 
stand why  he  was  not  treated  with  the  consideration  he 
received  under  his  father's  roof.     This  hurt  his  feelings. 

He  quarreled  with  other  boys  and,  being  sensitive  to  the 
marrow,  remembered  these  quarrels,  and  they  excited  him. 
He  found  whist,  and  gymkhanas,  and  things  of  that  kind 
(meant  to  amuse  one  after  office)  good ;  but  he  took  them 
seriously  too,  just  as  seriously  as  he  took  the  "head"  that 
followed  after  drink.  He  lost  his  money  over  whist  and 
gymkhanas  because  they  were  new  to  him. 

He  took  his  losses  seriously,  and  wasted  as  much  en- 
ergy and  interest  over  a  two-goldmohur  race  for  maiden 
ekka-ponies  with  their  manes  hogged,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
Derby.  One  half  of  this  came  from  inexperience — much 
as  the  puppy  squabbles  with  the  corner  of  the  hearthrug — 


20  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

and  the  other  half  from  the  dizziness  bred  by  stumbling 
ovit  of  his  quiet  life  into  the  glare  and  excitement  of  a 
livelier  one.  No  one  told  him  about  the  soap  and  the 
blacking,  because  an  average  man  takes  it  for  granted 
that  an  average  man  is  ordinarily  careful  in  regard  to 
them.  It  was  pitiful  to  watch  The  Boy  knocking  himself 
to  pieces,  as  an  over-handled  colt  falls  down  and  cuts  him- 
self when  he  gets  away  from  the  groom. 

This  unbridled  license  in  amusements  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  breaking  line  for,  much  less  rioting  over,  en- 
dured for  six  months — all  through  one  cold  weather — 
and  then  we  thought  that  the  heat  and  the  knowledge  of 
having  lost  his  money  and  health  and  lamed  his  horses 
would  sober  The  Boy  down,  and  he  would  stand  steady. 
In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  this  would  have 
happened.  You  can  see  the  principle  working  in  any 
Indian  Station.  But  this  particular  case  fell  through  be- 
cause The  Boy  was  sensitive  and  took  things  seriously — 
as  I  may  have  said  some  seven  times  before.  Of  course, 
we  could  not  tell  how  his  excesses  struck  him  personally. 
They  were  nothing  very  heartbreaking  or  above  the  aver- 
age. He  might  be  crippled  for  life  financially,  and  want 
a  little  nursing.  Still  the  memory  of  his  performances 
would  wither  away  in  one  hot  weather,  and  the  bankers 
would  help  him  to  tide  over  the  money-troubles.  But 
he  must  have  taken  another  view  altogether  and  have 
believed  himself  ruined  beyond  redemption.  His  Colonel 
talked  to  him  severely  when  the  cold  weather  ended. 
That  made  him  more  wretched  than  ever;  and  it  was 
only  an  ordinary  "Colonel's  wigging"! 

What  follov/s  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  fashion  in 
which  we  are  all  linked  together  and  made  responsible  for 
one  another.     The  thine  that  kicked  the  beam  in  The 


PLAIN  TALEG  FROM  THE  HILLS.  21 

Boy's  mind  was  a  remark  that  a  woman  made  when  he 
was  talking  to  her.  There  is  no  use  in  repeating  it,  for 
it  was  only  a  cruel  little  sentence,  rapped  out  before  think- 
ing, that  made  him  flush  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  He 
kept  himself  to  himself  for  three  days,  and  then  put  in 
for  two  days'  leave  to  go  shooting  near  a  Canal  Engineer's 
Rest  House  about  thirty  miles  out.  He  got  his  leave, 
and  that  night  at  Mess  was  noisier  and  more  offensive 
than  ever.  He  said  that  he  was  "going  to  shoot  big 
game,"  and  left  at  half-past  ten  o'clock  in  an  ekka.  Part- 
ridge— which  was  the  only  thing  a  man  could  get  near  the 
Rest  House — is  not  big  game;  so  every  one  laughed. 

Next  morning  one  of  the  Majors  came  in  from  short 
leave,  and  heard  that  The  Boy  had  gone  out  to  shoot 
"big  game."  The  Major  had  taken  an  interest  in  The 
Boy,  and  had,  more  than  once,  tried  to  check  him.  The 
Major  put  up  his  eyebrows  when  he  heard  of  the  ex- 
pedition and  went  to  The  Boy's  rooms  where  he  rum- 
maged. 

Presently  he  came  out  and  found  me  leaving  cards  on 
the  Mess.     There  was  no  one  else  in  the  ante-room. 

He  said,  "The  Boy  has  gone  out  shooting.  Does  a 
man  shoot  tetur  with  a  revolver  and  writing-case?" 

I  said,  "Nonsense,  Major!"  for  I  saw  what  was  in  his 
mind. 

He  said,  "Nonsense  or  no  nonsense,  I'm  going  to  the 
Canal  now — at  once.     I  don't  feel  easy." 

Then  he  thought  for  a  minute,  and  said,  "Can  you 
lie?" 

"You  know  best,"  I  answered.     "It's  my  profession." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Major,  "you  must  come  out  with 
me  now — at  once — in  an  ekka  to  the  Canal  to  shoot 


2:2  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

black-buck.  Go  and  put  on  shikar-kit — quick — and  drive 
here  with  a  gun." 

The  Major  was  a  masterful  man;  and  I  knew  that  he 
would  not  give  orders  for  nothing.  So  I  obeyed,  and  on 
return  found  the  Major  packed  up  in  an  ekka — ^gun-cases 
and  food  slung  below — all  ready  for  a  shooting-trip. 

He  dismissed  the  driver  and  drove  himself.  We  jogged 
along  quietly  while  in  the  station ;  but,  as  soon  as  we  got 
to  the  dusty  road  across  the  plains,  he  made  that  pony 
fly.  A  country-bred  can  do  nearly  anything  at  a  pinch. 
We  covered  the  thirty  miles  in  under  three  hours,  but  the 
poor  brute  was  nearly  dead. 

Once  I  said,  "What's  the  blazing  hurry,  Major?" 

He  said  quietly,  "The  Boy  has  been  alone,  by  himself 
for — one,  two,  five — fourteen  hours  now! — I  tell  you, 
I  don't  feel  easy." 

This  uneasiness  spread  itself  to  me,  and  I  helped  to 
beat  the  pony. 

When  we  came  to  the  Canal  Engineers  Rest  House 
the  Major  called  for  The  Boy's  servant;  but  there  was 
no  answer.  Then  we  went  up  to  the  house,  calling  for 
The  Boy  by  name ;  but  there  was  no  answer. 

"Oh,  he's  out  shooting,"  said  I. 

Just  then,  I  saw  through  one  of  the  windows  a  little 
hurricane-lamp  burning.  This  was  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon. We  both  stopped  dead  in  the  verandah,  holding 
our  breath  to  catch  every  sound;  and  we  heard,  inside 
the  room,  the  "brr — brr — brr"  of  a  multitude  of  flies. 
The  Major  said  nothing,  but  he  took  ofif  his  helmet  and 
we  entered  very  softly. 

The  Boy  was  dead  on  the  bed  in  the  center  of  the 
bare,  lime-washed  room.  He  had  shot  his  head  nearly  to 
pieces    with    his    revolver.     The    gun-cases    were    still 


PLAIN  TALES   FROM  THE  HILLS.  23 

Strapped,  so  was  the  bedding,  and  on  the  table  lay  The 
Boy's  writing-case  with  photographs.  He  had  gone 
away  to  die  Hke  a  poisoned  rat! 

The  Major  said  to  himself  softly,  "Poor  Boy!  Poor, 
poor  devil!"  Then  he  turned  away  from  the  bed  and 
said,  'T  want  your  help  in  this  business." 

Knowing  The  Boy  was  dead  by  his  own  hand,  I  saw 
exactly  what  that  help  would  be,  so  I  passed  over  to  the 
table,  took  a  chair,  lit  a  cheroot,  and  began  to  go  through 
the  writing-case;  the  Major  looking  over  my  shoulder 
and  repeating  to  himself,  "We  came  too  late! — Like  a 
rat  in  a  hole! — Poor,  poor  devil!" 

The  Boy  must  have  spent  half  the  night  in  writing 
to  his  people,  to  his  Colonel,  and  to  a  girl  at  Home ;  and 
as  soon  as  he  had  finished,  must  have  shot  himself,  for  he 
had  been  dead  a  long  time  when  we  came  in. 

I  read  all  that  he  had  written,  and  passed  over  each 
sheet  to  the  Major  as  I  finished  it. 

We  saw  from  his  accounts  how  very  seriously  he  had 
taken  everything.  He  wrote  about  "disgrace  which  he 
was  unable  to  bear" — "indelible  shame" — "criminal  folly" 
— "wasted  life,"  and  so  on;  besides  a  lot  of  private  things 
to  his  father  and  mother  much  too  sacred  to  put  into 
print.  The  letter  to  the  girl  at  Home  was  the  most  pitiful 
of  all;  and  I  choked  as  I  read  it.  The  Major  made  no 
attempt  to  keep  dry-eyed.  I  respected  him  for  that.  He 
read  and  rocked  himself  to  and  fro,  and  simply  cried  like 
a  woman  without  caring  to  hide  it.  The  letters  were  so 
dreary  and  hopeless  and  touching.  We  forgot  all  about 
The  Boy's  follies,  and  only  thought  of  the  poor  Thing 
on  the  bed  and  the  scrawled  sheets  in  our  hands.  It  was 
utterly  impossible  to   let  the  letters  go   Home.     They 


24  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

would  have  broken  his  father's  heart  and  killed  his  mother 
after  killing  her  belief  in  her  son. 

At  last  the  Major  dried  his  eyes  openly,  and  said, 
"Nice  sort  of  thing  to  spring  on  an  English  family! 
What  shall  we  do?" 

I  said,  knowing  what  the  Major  had  brought  me  out 
for, — "The  Boy  died  of  cholera.  We  were  with  him  at 
the  time.  We  can't  commit  ourselves  to  half-measures. 
Come  along." 

Then  began  one  of  the  most  grimly  comic  scenes  I  have 
ever  taken  part  in — the  concoction  of  a  big,  written  lie, 
bolstered  with  evidence,  to  soothe  The  Boy's  people  at 
Home.  I  began  the  rough  draft  of  the  letter,  the  Major 
throwing  in  hints  here  and  there  while  he  gathered  up 
all  the  stufif  that  The  Boy  had  written  and  burnt  it  in  the 
fireplace.  It  was  a  hot,  still  evening  when  we  began,  and 
the  lamp  burned  very  badly.  In  due  course  I  made  the 
draft  to  my  satisfaction,  setting  forth  how  The  Boy  was 
the  pattern  of  all  virtues,  beloved  by  his  regiment,  with 
every  promise  of  a  great  career  before  him,  and  so  on; 
how  we  had  helped  him  through  the  sickness — it  was  no 
time  for  little  lies  you  will  understand — and  how  he  had 
died  without  pain.  I  choked  while  I  was  putting  down 
these  things  and  thinking  of  the  poor  people  who  would 
read  them.  Then  I  laughed  at  the  grotesqueness  of  the 
affair,  and  the  laughter  mixed  itself  up  with  the  choke — 
and  the  Major  said  that  we  both  wanted  drinks. 

I  am  afraid  to  say  how  much  whisky  we  drank  before 
the  letter  was  finished.  It  had  not  the  least  effect  on  us. 
Then  we  took  off  The  Boy's  watch,  locket,  and  rings. 

Lastly,  the  Major  said,  "We  must  send  a  lock  of  hair, 
too.     A  woman  values  that." 

But  there  were  reasons  why  we  could  not  find  a  lock 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  25 

fit  to  send.  The  Boy  was  black-haired,  and  so  was  the 
Major,  luckily.  I  cut  off  a  piece  of  the  Major's  hair 
above  the  temple  with  a  knife,  and  put  it  into  the  packet 
we  were  making.  The  laughing-fit  and  the  chokes  got 
hold  of  me  again,  and  I  had  to  stop.  The  Major  was 
nearly  as  bad;  and  we  both  knew  that  the  worst  part  of 
the  work  was  to  come. 

We  sealed  up  the  packet,  photographs,  locket,  seals, 
ring,  letter,  and  lock  of  hair  with  The  Boy's  sealing-wax 
and  The  Boy's  seal. 

Then  the  Major  said,  "For  God's  sake  let's  get  outside 
— away  from  the  room — and  think!" 

We  went  outside,  and  walked  on  the  banks  of  the  Canal 
for  an  hour,  eating  and  drinking  what  we  had  with  us, 
until  the  moon  rose.  I  know  now  exactly  how  a  mur- 
derer feels.  Finally,  we  forced  ourselves  back  to  the  room 
with  the  lamp  and  the  Other  Thing  in  it,  and  began  to 
take  up  the  next  piece  of  work.  I  am  not  going  to 
write  about  this.  It  was  too  horrible.  We  burned  the 
bedstead  and  dropped  the  ashes  into  the  Canal;  we  took 
up  the  matting  of  the  room  and  treated  that  in  the  same 
way.  I  went  off  to  a  village  and  borrowed  two  big  hoes, 
— I  did  not  want  the  villagers  to  help, — while  the  Major 
arranged — the  other  matters.  It  took  us  four  hours'  hard 
work  to  make  the  grave.  As  we  worked,  we  argued  out 
whether  it  was  right  to  say  as  much  as  we  remembered 
of  the  Burial  of  the  Dead.  We  compromised  things  by 
saying  the  Lord's  Prayer  with  a  private  unofficial  prayer 
for  the  peace  of  the  soul  of  The  Boy.  Then  we  filled  in 
the  grave  and  went  into  the  verandah — not  the  house — 
to  lie  down  to  sleep.     We  were  dead-tired. 

When  we  woke  the  Major  said  wearily,  "We  can't  go 
back  till  to-morrow.     We  must  give  him  a  decent  time 


26  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

to  die  in.  He  died  early  this  morning,  remember.  That 
seems  more  natural."  So  the  Major  must  have  been 
lying  awake  all  the  time,  thinking. 

I  said,  "Then  why  didn't  we  bring  the  body  back  to 
cantonments?" 

The  Major  thought  for  a  minute.  "Because  the  people 
bolted  when  they  heard  of  the  cholera.  And  the  ekka 
has  gone!" 

That  was  strictly  true.  We  had  forgotten  all  about 
the  ekka-pony,  and  he  had  gone  home. 

So  we  were  left  there  alone,  all  that  stifling  day,  in  the 
Canal  Rest  House,  testing  and  re-testing  our  story  of 
The  Boy's  death  to  see  if  it  was  weak  in  any  point.  A 
native  appeared  in  the  afternoon,  but  we  said  that  a  Sahib 
was  dead  of  cholera,  and  he  ran  away.  As  the  dusk  gath- 
ered, the  Major  told  me  all  his  fears  about  The  Boy,  and 
awful  stories  of  suicide  or  nearly-carried  out  suicide — 
tales  that  made  one's  hair  crisp.  He  said  that  he  himself 
had  once  gone  into  the  same  Valley  of  the  Shadow  as  The 
Boy,  when  he  was  young  and  new  to  the  country ;  so  he 
understood  how  things  fought  together  in  The  Boy's  poor 
jumbled  head.  He  also  said  that  youngsters,  in  their  re- 
pentant moments,  consider  their  sins  much  more  serious 
and  ineffaceable  than  they  really  are.  We  talked  together 
all  through  the  evening  and  rehearsed  the  story  of  the 
death  of  The  Boy.  As  soon  as  the  moon  was  up,  and  The 
Boy,  theoretically,  just  buried,  we  struck  across  country 
for  the  Station.  We  walked  from  eight  till  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  but  though  we  were  dead-tired,  we  did  not 
forget  to  go  to  The  Boy's  rooms  and  put  away  his  re- 
volver with  the  proper  amount  of  cartridges  in  the  pouch. 
Also  to  set  his  writing-case  on  the  table.  We  found  the 
Colonel  and  reported  the  death,  feeling  more  like  mur- 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  27 

derers  than  ever.  Then  we  went  to  bed  and  slept  the 
clock  round;   for  there  was  no  more  in  us. 

The  tale  had  credence  as  long  as  was  necessary;  for 
every  one  forgot  about  The  Boy  before  a  fortnight  was 
over.  Many  people,  however,  found  time  to  say  that  the 
Major  had  behaved  scandalously  in  not  bringing  in  the 
body  for  a  regimental  funeral.  The  saddest  thing  of  all 
was  the  letter  from  The  Boy's  mother  to  the  Major  and 
me — ^with  big  inky  blisters  all  over  the  sheet.  She  wrote 
the  sweetest  possible  things  about  our  great  kindness,  and 
the  obligation  she  would  be  under  to  us  as  long  as  she 
lived. 

All  things  considered,  she  was  under  an  obligation; 
but  not  exactly  as  she  meant. 


28  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HULLS. 


MISS  YOUGHAL'S  SAIS. 

When  Man  and  Woman  are  agreed,  what  can  the  Kazi  do? 

— Proverb. 

Some  people  say  that  there  is  no  romance  in  India. 
Those  people  are  wrong.  Our  lives  hold  quite  as  much 
romance  as  is  good  for  us.     Sometimes  more. 

Strickland  was  in  the  Police,  and  the  people  did  not 
understand  him;  so  they  said  he  was  a  doubtful  sort  of 
man  and  passed  by  on  the  other  side.  Strickland  had 
himself  to  thank  for  this.  He  held  the  extraordinary 
theory  that  a  Policeman  in  India  should  try  to  know  as 
much  about  the  natives  as  the  natives  themselves.  Now, 
in  the  whole  of  Upper  India,  there  is  only  one  man  who 
can  pass  for  Hindu  or  Mohammedan,  hide-dresser  or 
priest,  as  he  pleases.  He  is  feared  and  respected  by  the 
natives  from  the  Ghor  Kathri  to  the  Jamma  Musjid;  and 
he  is  supposed  to  have  the  gift  of  invisibiHty  and  execu- 
tive control  over  many  Devils.  But  this  has  done  him 
no  good  in  the  eyes  of  the  Indian  Government. 

Strickland  was  foolish  enough  to  take  that  man  for  his 
model;  and,  following  out  his  absurd  theory,  dabbled 
in  unsavory  places  no  respectable  man  would  think  of 
exploring — all  among  the  native  rifif-raff.  He  educated 
himself  in  this  peculiar  way  for  seven  years,  and  people 
could  not  appreciate  it.  He  was  perpetually  "going 
Fantee"  among  natives,  which,  of  course,  no  man  with 
any  sense  believes  in.  He  was  initiated  into  the  Sat  Bhai 
at  Allahabad  once,  when  he  was  on  leave;  he  knew  the 
Lizzard-Song  of  the  Sansis,  and  the  Halli-Hukk  dance, 


PLAIN  TALES   FROM  THE  HILLS.  29 

which  is  a  religious  can-can  of  a  startling  kind.  When  a 
man  knows  who  dance  the  Halli-Hukk,  and  how,  and 
when,  and  where,  he  knows  something  to  be  proud  of. 
He  has  gone  deeper  than  the  skin.  But  Strickland  was 
not  proud,  though  he  had  helped  once,  at  Jagadhri,  at  the 
Painting  of  the  Death  Bull,  which  no  Englishman  must 
even  look  upon;  had  mastered  the  thieves'-patter  of  the 
changars;  had  taken  a  Eusufzai  horse-thief  alone  near 
Attock;  and  had  stood  under  the  sounding-board  of  a 
Border  mosque  and  conducted  service  in  the  manner  of  a 
Sunni  Mollah. 

His  crowning  achievement  was  spending  eleven  days 
as  a  faquir  or  priest  in  the  gardens  of  Baba  Atal  at 
Amritsar,  and  there  picking  up  the  threads  of  the  great 
Nasiban  Murder  Case.  But  people  said,  justly  enough, 
"Why  on  earth  can't  Strickland  sit  in  his  office  and  write 
up  his  diary,  and  recruit,  and  keep  quiet,  instead  of 
showing  up  the  incapacity  of  his  seniors?"  So  the  Nasi- 
ban Murder  Case  did  him  no  good  departmentally;  but, 
after  his  first  feeling  of  wrath,  he  returned  to  his  out- 
landish custom  of  prying  into  native  life.  When  a  man 
once  acquires  a  taste  for  this  particular  amusement,  it 
abides  with  him  all  his  days.  It  is  the  most  fascinating 
thing  in  the  world;  Love  not  excepted.  Where  other 
men  took  ten  days  to  the  Hills,  Strickland  took  leave 
for  what  he  called  shikar,  put  on  the  disguise  that  ap- 
pealed to  him  at  the  time,  stepped  down  into  the  brown 
crowd,  and  was  swallowed  up  for  a  while.  He  was  a 
quiet,  dark  young  fellow — spare,  black-eyed — and,  when 
he  was  not  thinking  of  something  else,  a  very  interesting 
companion.  Strickland  on  Native  Progress  as  he  had 
seen  it  was  worth  hearing.  Natives  hated  Strickland; 
but  they  were  afraid  of  him.     He  knew  too  much. 


30  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

When  the  Youghals  came  into  the  station,  Strick- 
land— very  gravely,  as  he  did  everything — fell  in  love 
with  Miss  Youghal;  and  she,  after  a  while,  fell  in  love 
with  him  because  she  could  not  understand  him.  Then 
Strickland  told  the  parents;  but  Mrs.  Youghal  said  she 
was  not  going  to  throw  her  daughter  into  the  worst  paid 
Department  in  the  Empire,  and  old  Youghal  said,  in  so 
many  words,  that  he  mistrusted  Strickland's  ways  and 
works,  and  would  thank  him  not  to  speak  or  write  to  his 
daughter  any  more.  "Very  well,"  said  Strickland,  for  he 
did  not  wish  to  make  his  lady-love's  life  a  burden.  After 
one  long  talk  with  Miss  Youghal  he  dropped  the  business 
entirely. 

The  Youghals  went  up  to  Simla  in  April. 

In  July  Strickland  secured  three  months'  leave  on  "urg- 
ent private  affairs."  He  locked  up  his  house — though  not 
a  native  in  the  Province  would  wittingly  have  touched 
"Estreekin  Sahib's"  gear  for  the  world — and  went  down  to 
see  a  friend  of  his,  an  old  dyer,  at  Tarn  Taran. 

Here  all  trace  of  him  was  lost,  until  a  sais  or  groom  met 
me  on  the  Simla  Mail  with  this  extraordinary  note : 

Dear  old  Man: — Please  give  bearer  a  box  of  cheroots — Supers, 
No.  1,  for  preference.  They  are  freshest  at  the  Club.  I'll  repay 
when  I  reappear;  but  at  present  I'm  out  of  society. — Yours, 

E.  Strickland. 

I  ordered  two  boxes,  and  handed  them  over  to  the  sais 
with  my  love.  That  sais  was  Strickland,  and  he  was  in 
old  Youghal's  employ,  attached  to  Miss  Youghal's  Arab. 
The  poor  fellow  was  suffering  for  an  English  smoke,  and 
knew  that,  whatever  happened,  I  should  hold  my  tongue 
till  the  business  was  over. 

Later  on,  Mrs.  Youghal,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  her 
servants,  began  talking  at  houses  where  she  called  of  her 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  3 1 

paragon  among  saises — the  man  who  was  never  too  busy 
to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  pick  flowers  for  the  break- 
fast-table, and  who  blacked — actually  blacked — the  hoofs 
of  his  horse  like  a  London  coachman!  The  turn-out  of 
Miss  Youghal's  Arab  was  a  wonder  and  a  delight.  Strick- 
land— Dulloo,  I  mean — found  his  reward  in  the  pretty 
things  that  Miss  Youghal  said  to  him  when  she  went  out 
riding.  Her  parents  were  pleased  to  find  she  had  for- 
gotten all  her  foolishness  for  young  Strickland  and  said 
she  was  a  good  girl. 

Strickland  vows  that  the  two  months  of  his  service  were 
the  most  rigid  mental  discipline  he  has  ever  gone  through. 
Quite  apart  from  the  little  fact  that  the  wife  of  one  of  his 
fellow-saises  fell  in  love  with  him  and  then  tried  to 
poison  him  with  arsenic  because  he  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  her,  he  had  to  school  himself  into  keeping  quiet 
when  Miss  Youghal  went  out  riding  with  some  man  who 
tried  to  flirt  with  her,  and  he  was  forced  to  trot  behind 
carrying  the  blanket  and  hearing  every  word!  Also,  he 
had  to  keep  his  temper  when  he  was  slanged  in  the  theater 
porch  by  a  policeman — especially  once  when  he  was 
abused  by  a  Naik  he  had  himself  recruited  from  Isser  Jang 
village — or,  worse  still,  when  a  young  subaltern  called 
him  a  pig  for  not  making  way  quickly  enough. 

But  the  life  had  its  compensations.  He  obtained  great 
insight  into  the  ways  and  thefts  of  saises — enough  he 
says  to  have  summarily  convicted  half  the  population  of 
the  Punjab  if  he  had  been  on  business.  He  became  one 
of  the  leading  players  at  knuckle-bones,  which  all  jham- 
panis  and  many  saises  play  while  they  are  waiting  outside 
the  Government-House  or  the  Gaiety  Theater  of  nights ; 
he  learned  to  smoke  tobacco  that  was  three-fourths  cow- 
dung;  and  he  heard  the  wisdom  of  the  grizzled  Jemadar 


32  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

of  the  Government  House  grooms.  Whose  words  are 
valuable.  He  saw  many  things  which  amused  him;  and 
he  states,  on  honor,  that  no  man  can  appreciate  Simla 
properly,  till  he  has  seen  it  from  the  sais's  point  of  view. 
He  also  says  that,  if  he  chose  to  write  all  he  saw,  his  head 
would  be  broken  in  several  places. 

Strickland's  account  of  the  agony  he  endured  on  wet 
nights,  hearing  the  music  and  seeing  the  lights  in  "Ben- 
more,"  with  his  toes  tingling  for  a  waltz  and  his  head  in  a 
horse-blanket,  is  rather  amusing.  One  of  these  days, 
Strickland  is  going  to  write  a  little  book  on  his  experi- 
ences. That  book  will  be  worth  buying;  and  even  more 
worth  suppressing. 

Thus,  he  served  faithfully  as  Jacob  served  for  Rachel; 
and  his  leave  was  nearly  at  an  end  when  the  explosion 
came.  He  had  really  done  his  best  to  keep  his  temper  in 
the  hearing  of  the  flirtations  I  have  mentioned;  but  he 
broke  down  at  last.  An  old  and  very  distinguished  Gen- 
eral took  Miss  Youghal  for  a  ride,  and  began  that  special- 
ly offensive  "you're-only-a-little-girl"  sort  of  flirtation — 
most  difficult  for  a  woman  to  turn  aside  deftly,  and  most 
maddening  to  listen  to.  Miss  Youghal  was  shaking  with 
fear  at  the  things  he  said  in  the  hearing  of  her  sais.  Dul- 
loo — Strickland — stood  it  as  long  as  he  could.  Then  he 
caught  hold  of  the  General's  bridle,  and,  in  most  fluent 
English,  invited  him  to  step  ofif  and  be  flung  over  the 
clifl^.  Next  minute.  Miss  Youghal  began  to  cry;  and 
Strickland  saw  that  he  had  hopelessly  given  himself  away, 
and  everything  was  over. 

The  General  nearly  had  a  fit,  while  Miss  Youghal  was 
sobbing  out  the  story  of  the  disguise  and  the  engage- 
ment that  was  not  recognized  by  the  parents.  Strick- 
land was  furiously  angry  with  himself,  and  more  angn/ 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  33 

with  the  General  for  forcing  his  hand ;  so  he  said  nothing, 
but  held  the  horse's  head  and  prepared  to  thrash  the  Gen- 
eral as  some  sort  of  satisfaction.  But  when  the  General 
had  thoroughly  grasped  the  story,  and  knew  who  Strick- 
land was,  he  began  to  puff  and  blow  in  the  saddle,  and 
nearly  rolled  off  with  laughing.  He  said  Strickland  de- 
served a  V.C.,  if  it  were  only  for  putting  on  a  sais's 
blanket.  Then  he  called  himself  names,  and  vowed  that 
he  deserved  a  thrashing,  but  he  was  too  old  to  take  it  from 
Strickland.  Then  he  complimented  Miss  Youghal  on  her 
lover.  The  scandal  of  the  business  never  struck  him; 
for  he  was  a  nice  old  man,  with  a  weakness  for  flirtations. 
Then  he  laughed  again,  and  said  old  Youghal  was  a  fool. 
Strickland  let  go  of  the  cob's  head,  and  suggested  that 
the  General  had  better  help  them,  if  that  was  his  opinion. 
Strickland  knew  Youghal's  weakness  for  men  with  titles 
and  letters  after  their  names  and  high  official  position. 
"It's  rather  like  a  forty-minute  farce,"  said  the  General, 
"but,  begad,  I  will  help,  if  it's  only  to  escape  that  tre- 
mendous thrashing  I  deserve.  Go  along  to  your  home, 
my  sais-Policeman,  and  change  into  decent  kit,  and  I'll 
attack  Mr.  Youghal.  Miss  Youghal,  may  I  ask  you  to 
canter  home  and  wait?" 

About  seven  minutes  later,  there  was  a  wild  hurroosh 
at  the  Club.  A  sais,  with  a  blanket  and  headrope,  was 
asking  all  the  men  he  knew:  "For  Heaven's  sake  lend  me 
decent  clothes!"  As  the  men  did  not  recognize  him, 
there  were  some  peculiar  scenes  before  Strickland  could 
get  a  hot  bath,  with  soda  in  it,  in  one  room,  a  shirt  here, 
a  collar  there,  a  pair  of  trousers  elsewhere,  and  so  on. 
He  galloped  ofif,  with  half  the  Club  wardrobe  on  his  back, 
and  an  utter  stranger's  pony  under  him,  to  the  house  of 


34  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

old  Youghal.  The  General,  arrayed  in  purple  and  fine 
linen,  was  before  him.  What  the  General  had  said  Strick- 
land never  knew,  but  Youghal  received  Strickland  with 
moderate  civility ;  and  Mrs.  Youghal,  touched  by  the  de- 
votion of  the  transformed  Dulloo,  was  almost  kind.  The 
General  beamed  and  chuckled,  and  Miss  Youghal  came 
in,  and,  almost  before  old  Youghal  knew  where  he  was, 
the  parental  consent  had  been  wrenched  out,  and  Strick- 
land had  departed  with  Miss  Youghal  to  the  Telegraph 
Office  to  wire  for  his  European  kit.  The  final  embarrass- 
ment was  when  a  stranger  attacked  him  on  the  Mall  and 
asked  for  the  stolen  pony. 

In  the  end,  Strickland  and  Miss  Youghal  were  mar- 
ried, on  the  strict  understanding  that  Strickland  should 
drop  his  old  ways,  and  stick  to  Departmental  routine, 
which  pays  best  and  leads  to  Simla.  Strickland  was  far 
too  fond  of  his  wife,  just  then,  to  break  his  word,  but  it 
was  a  sore  trial  to  him;  for  the  streets  and  the  bazaars, 
and  the  sounds  in  them,  were  full  of  meaning  to  Strick- 
land, and  these  called  to  him  to  come  back  and  take  up 
his  wanderings  and  his  discoveries.  Some  day,  I  will  tell 
you  how  he  broke  his  promise  to  help  a  friend.  That  was 
long  since,  and  he  has,  by  this  time,  been  nearly  spoilt 
for  what  he  would  call  shikar.  He  is  forgetting  the  slang, 
and  the  beggar's  cant,  and  the  marks,  and  the  signs,  and 
the  drift  of  the  under-currents,  which,  if  a  man  would 
master,  he  must  always  continue  to  learn. 

But  he  fills  in  his  Departmental  returns  beautifully. 


PLAIN  TALES   FROM   THE   HILLS.  35 


"YOKED  WITH  AN  UNBELIEVER." 

I  am  dying  for  you,  and  you  are  dying  for  another. 

— Punjabi  Proverb. 

When  the  Gravesend  tender  left  the  P.  &  O.  steamer 
for  Bombay  and  went  back  to  catch  the  train  to  Town, 
there  were  many  people  in  it  crying.  But  the  one  who 
wept  most,  and  most  openly,  was  Miss  Agnes  Laiter. 
She  had  reason  to  cry,  because  the  only  man  she  ever 
loved — or  ever  could  love,  so  she  said — was  going  out 
to  India;  and  India,  as  every  one  knows,  is  divided  equal- 
ly between  jungle,  tigers,  cobras,  cholera,  and  sepoys. 

Phil  Garron,  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  steamer  in 
the  rain,  felt  very  tmhappy  too ;  but  he  did  not  cry.  He 
was  sent  out  to  "tea."  What  "tea"  meant  he  had  not  the 
vaguest  idea,  but  fancied  that  he  would  have  to  ride  on  a 
prancing  horse  over  hills  covered  with  tea-vines,  and  draw 
a  sumptuous  salary  for  doing  so ;  and  he  was  very  grateful 
to  his  uncle  for  getting  him  the  berth.  He  was  really 
going  to  reform  all  his  slack,  shiftless  ways,  save  a  large 
proportion  of  his  magnificent  salary  yearly,  and,  in  a  very 
short  time,  return  to  marry  Agnes  Laiter.  Phil  Garron 
had  been  lying  loose  on  his  friends'  hands  for  three  years, 
and,  as  he  had  nothing  to  do,  he  naturally  fell  in  love. 
He  was  very  nice;  but  he  was  not  strong  in  his  views 
and  opinions  and  principles,  and  though  he  never  came 
to  actual  grief  his  friends  were  thankful  when  he  said 
good-bye,  and  went  out  to  this  mysterious  "tea"  busi- 
ness near  Darjiling.     They  said,  "God  bless  you,  dear 


36  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

boy !  Let  us  never  see  your  face  again," — or  at  least  that 
was  what  Phil  was  given  to  understand. 

When  he  sailed,  he  was  very  full  of  a  great  plan  to 
prove  himself  several  hundred  times  better  than  any  one 
had  given  him  credit  for — to  work  like  a  horse,  and 
triumphantly  marry  Agnes  Laiter.  He  had  many  good 
points  besides  his  good  looks;  his  only  fault  being  that 
he  was  weak,  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world  weak.  He 
had  as  much  notion  of  economy  as  the  Morning  Sun; 
and  yet  you  could  not  lay  your  hand  on  any  one  item,  and 
say,  "Herein  Phil  Garron  is  extravagant  or  reckless." 
Nor  could  you  point  out  any  particular  vice  in  his  charac- 
ter; but  he  was  "unsatisfactory"  and  as  workable  as 
putty. 

Agnes  Laiter  went  about  her  duties  at  home — her 
family  objected  to  the  engagement — ^with  red  eyes,  while 
Phil  was  sailing  to  Darjiling — a  "port  on  the  Bengal 
Ocean,"  as  his  mother  used  to  tell  her  friends.  He  was 
popular  enough  on  boardship,  made  many  acquaintances 
and  a  moderately  large  liquor-bill,  and  sent  off  huge 
letters  to  Agnes  Laiter  at  each  port.  Then  he  fell  to 
work  on  this  plantation,  somewhere  between  Darjiling 
and  Kangra,  and,  though  the  salary  and  the  horse  and  the 
work  were  not  quite  all  he  had  fancied,  he  succeeded  fairly 
well,  and  gave  himself  much  unnecessary  credit  for  his 
perseverance. 

In  the  course  of  time,  as  he  settled  more  into  collar, 
and  his  work  grew  fixed  before  him,  the  face  of  Agnes 
Laiter  went  out  of  his  mind  and  only  came  when  he  was 
at  leisure,  which  was  not  often.  He  would  forget  all 
about  her  for  a  fortnight,  and  remember  her  with  a  start, 
like  a  schoolboy  who  has  forgotten  to  learn  his  lesson. 
She  did  not  forget  Phil,  because  she  was  of  the  kind  that 


PLAIN   TALES   FROM    THE   HILLS.  37 

never  forgets.  Only,  another  man — a  really  desirable 
young  man — presented  himself  before  Mrs.  Laiter;  and 
the  chance  of  a  marriage  with  Phil  was  as  far  off  as  ever; 
and  his  letters  were  so  unsatisfactory;  and  there  was  a 
certain  amount  of  domestic  pressure  brought  to  bear  on 
the  girl;  and  the  young  man  really  was  an  eligible  per- 
son as  incomes  go;  and  the  end  of  all  things  was  that 
Agnes  married  him,  and  wrote  a  tempestuous  whirlwind 
of  a  letter  to  Phil  in  the  wilds  of  Darjiling,  and  said  she 
should  never  know  a  happy  moment  all  the  rest  of  her 
life.     Which  was  a  true  prophecy. 

Phil  received  that  letter,  and  held  himself  ill-treated. 
This  was  two  years  after  he  had  come  out;  but  by  dint 
of  thinking  fixedly  of  Agnes  Laiter,  and  looking  at  her 
photograph,  and  patting  himself  on  the  back  for  being 
one  of  the  most  constant  lovers  in  history,  and  warming 
to  the  work  as  he  went  on,  he  really  fancied  that  he  had 
been  very  hardly  used.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  one  final 
letter — a  really  pathetic  "world  without  end,  amen," 
epistle;  explaining  how  he  would  be  true  to  Eternity, 
and  that  all  women  were  very  much  alike,  and  he  would 
hide  his  broken  heart,  etc.,  etc. ;  but  if^,  at  any  future  time, 
etc.,  etc.,  he  could  afford  to  wait,  etc.,  etc.,  unchanged  af- 
fections, etc.,  etc.,  return  to  her  old  love,  etc.,  etc.,  for  eight 
closely-written  pages.  From  an  artistic  point  of  view,  it 
was  very  neat  work,  but  an  ordinary  Philistine,  who  knew 
the  state  of  Phil's  real  feelings — not  the  ones  he  rose  to  as 
he  went  on  writing — would  have  called  it  the  thoroughly 
mean  and  selfish  work  of  a  thoroughly  mean  and  selfish 
weak  man.  But  this  verdict  would  have  been  incorrect. 
Phil  paid  for  the  postage,  and  felt  every  word  he  had 
written  for  at  least  two  days  and  a  half.  It  was  the  last 
flicker  before  the  light  went  out. 


3B  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

That  letter  made  Agnes  Laiter  very  unhappy,  and  she 
cried  and  put  it  away  in  her  desk,  and  became  Mrs.  Some- 
body Else  for  the  good  of  her  family.  Which  is  the  first 
duty  of  every  Christian  maid. 

Phil  went  his  ways,  and  thought  no  more  of  his  letter, 
except  as  an  artist  thinks  of  a  neatly  touched-in  sketch. 
His  ways  were  not  bad,  but  they  were  not  altogether 
good  until  they  brought  him  across  Dunmaya,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  Rajput  ex-Subadar-Major  of  our  Native  Army. 
The  girl  had  a  strain  of  Hill  blood  in  her,  and  like  the 
Hill-women,  was  not  a  purdah-nashin  or  woman  who  lives 
behind  the  veil.  Where  Phil  met  her,  or  how  he  heard  of 
her,  does  not  matter.  She  was  a  good  girl  and  hand- 
some, and,  in  her  way,  very  clever  and  shrewd;  though 
of  course,  a  little  hard.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  Phil 
was  living  very  comfortably,  denying  himself  no  small 
luxury,  never  putting  by  a  penny,  very  satisfied  with  him- 
self and  his  good  intentions,  was  dropping  all  his  English 
correspondents  one  by  one,  and  beginning  more  and 
more  to  look  upon  India  as  his  home.  Some  men  fall 
this  way;  and  they  are  of  no  use  afterwards.  The  climate 
where  he  was  stationed  was  good,  and  it  really  did  not 
seem  to  him  that  there  was  any  reason  to  return  to  Eng- 
land. 

He  did  what  many  planters  have  done  before  him 
— that  is  to  say,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  a  Hill- 
girl  and  settle  down.  He  was  seven-and-twenty  then, 
with  a  long  life  before  him,  but  no  spirit  to  go  through 
with  it.  So  he  married  Dunmaya  by  the  forms  of  the 
English  Church,  and  some  fellow-planters  said  he  was  a 
fool,  and  some  said  he  was  a  wise  man,  Dunmaya  was 
a  thoroughly  honest  girl,  and,  in  spite  of  her  reverence 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  39 

for  an  Englishman,  had  a  reasonable  estimate  of  her  hus- 
band's weaknesses.  She  managed  him  tenderly,  and  be- 
came, in  less  than  a  year,  a  very  passable  imitation  of  an 
English  lady  in  dress  and  carriage.  It  is  curious  to 
think  that  a  Hill-man  after  a  lifetime's  education  is  a 
Hill-man  still;  but  a  Hill-woman  can  in  six  months  mas- 
ter most  of  the  ways  of  her  English  sisters.  There  was  a 
coolie-woman  once.  But  that  is  another  story.  Dun- 
maya  dressed  by  preference  in  black  and  yellow  and 
looked  well. 

Meantime  Phil's  letter  lay  in  Agnes  Laiter's  desk,  and 
now  and  again  she  would  think  of  poor,  resolute,  hard- 
working Phil  among  the  cobras  and  tigers  of  Darjiling, 
toiling  in  the  vain  hope  that  she  might  come  back  to  him. 
Her  husband  was  worth  ten  Phils,  except  that  he  had 
rheumatism  of  the  heart.  Three  years  after  he  was  mar- 
ried,— and  after  he  had  tried  Nice  and  Algeria  for  his 
complaint, — he  went  to  Bombay,  where  he  died  and  set 
Agnes  free.  Being  a  devout  woman,  she  looked  on  his 
death  and  the  place  of  it,  as  a  direct  interposition  of  Provi- 
dence, and  when  she  had  recovered  from  the  shock,  she 
took  out  and  re-read  Phil's  letter  with  the  "etc.,  etc.,"  and 
the  big  dashes,  and  the  little  dashes,  and  kissed  it  several 
times.  No  one  knew  her  in  Bombay;  she  had  her  hus- 
band's income,  which  was  a  large  one,  and  Phil  was  close 
at  hand.  It  was  wrong  and  improper,  of  course,  but  she 
decided,  as  heroines  do  in  novels,  to  find  her  old  lover,  to 
offer  him  her  hand  and  her  gold,  and  with  him  spend  the 
rest  of  her  life  in  some  spot  far  from  unsympathetic  souls. 
She  sat  for  two  months,  alone  in  Watson's  Hotel,  elabor- 
ating this  decision,  and  the  picture  was  a  pretty  one. 
Then  she  set  out  in  search  of  Phil  Garron,  Assistant  on  a 


40  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

tea  plantation  with  a  more  than  usually  unpronounceable 
name. 

********* 

She  found  him.  She  spent  a  month  over  it,  for  his 
plantation  was  not  in  the  Darjiling  district  at  all,  but 
nearer  Kangra.  Phil  was  very  little  altered,  and  Dun- 
maya  was  very  nice  to  her. 

Now  the  particular  sin  and  shame  of  the  whole  business 
is  that  Phil,  who  really  is  not  worth  thinking  of  twice, 
was  and  is  loved  by  Dunmaya,  and  more  than  loved  by 
Agnes,  the  whole  of  whose  life  he  seems  to  have  spoilt. 

Worst  of  all,  Dunmaya  is  making  a  decent  man  of  him*; 
and  he  will  ultimately  be  saved  from  perdition  through 
her  training. 

Which  is  manifestly  unfair. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  4I 


FALSE  DAWN. 

To-night  God  knows  what  thing  shall  tide. 

The  Earth  is  raclied  and  faint — 
Expectant,  sleepless,  open-eyed; 
And  we,  who  from  the  Earth  were  made. 

Thrill  with  our  Mother's  pain. 

— In  Durance. 

No  man  will  ever  know  the  exact  truth  of  this  story; 
though  women  may  sometimes  whisper  it  to  one  another 
after  a  dance,  when  they  are  putting  up  their  hair  for 
the  night  and  comparing  lists  of  victims.  A  man,  of 
course,  cannot  assist  at  these  functions.  So  the  tale  must 
be  told  from  the  outside — in  the  dark — all  wrong. 

Never  praise  a  sister  to  a  sister,  in  the  hope  of  your 
compliments  reaching  the  proper  ears,  and  so  preparing 
the  way  for  you  later  on.  Sisters  are  women  first,  and 
sisters  afterwards;  and  you  will  find  that  you  do  yourself 
harm. 

Saumarez  knew  this  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
propose  to  the  elder  Miss  Copleigh.  Saumarez  was  a 
strange  man,  with  few  merits  so  far  as  men  could  see, 
though  he  was  popular  with  women,  and  carried  enough 
conceit  to  stock  a  Viceroy's  Council  and  leave  a  little 
over  for  the  Commander-in-Chief's  Staff.  He  was  a  Civil- 
ian. Very  many  women  took  an  interest  in  Saumarez, 
perhaps,  because  his  manner  to  them  was  offensive.  If 
you  hit  a  pony  over  the  nose  at  the  outset  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, he  may  not  love  you,  but  he  will  take  a  deep 
interest  in  your  movements  ever  afterwards.  The  elder 
Miss   Copleigh  was  nice,  plump,   winning,  and  pretty. 


42  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

The  younger  was  not  so  pretty,  and,  from  men  disre- 
garding the  hint  set  forth  above,  her  style  was  repellant 
and  unattractive.  Both  girls  had,  practically,  the  same 
figure,  and  there  was  a  strong  likeness  between  them  in 
look  and  voice;  though  no  one  could  doubt  for  an  in- 
stant which  was  the  nicer  of  the  two. 

Saumarez  made  up  his  mind,  as  soon  as  they  came  into 
the  station  from  Behar,  to  marry  the  elder  one.  At  least, 
we  all  made  sure  that  he  would,  which  comes  to  the  same 
thing.  She  was  two-and-twenty,  and  he  was  thirty-three, 
with  pay  and  allowances  of  nearly  fourteen  hundred  ru- 
pees a  month.  So  the  match,  as  we  arranged  it,  was  in 
every  way  a  good  one.  Saumarez  was  his  name,  and 
summary  was  his  nature,  as  a  man  once  said.  Having 
drafted  his  Resolution,  he  formed  a  Select  Committee  of 
One  to  sit  upon  it,  and  resolved  to  take  his  time.  In  our 
unpleasant  slang,  the  Copleigh  girls  "hunted  in  couples." 
That  is  to  say,  you  could  do  nothing  with  one  without 
the  other.  They  were  very  loving  sisters ;  but  their  mu- 
tual affection  was  sometimes  inconvenient.  Saumarez 
held  the  balance-hair  true  between  them,  and  none  but 
himself  could  have  said  to  which  side  his  heart  inclined; 
though  every  one  guessed.  He  rode  with  them  a  good 
deal  and  danced  with  them,  but  he  never  succeeded  in  de- 
taching them  from  each  other  for  any  length  of  time. 

Women  said  that  the  two  girls  kept  together  through 
deep  mistrust,  each  fearing  that  the  other  would  steal 
a  march  on  her.  But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  man. 
Saumarez  was  silent  for  good  or  bad,  and  as  business- 
likely  attentive  as  he  could  be,  having  due  regard  to  his 
work  and  his  polo.  Beyond  doubt  both  girls  were  fond 
of  him. 

As  the  hot  weather  drew  nearer  and  Saumarez  made 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  43 

no  sign,  women  said  that  you  could  see  their  trouble  in 
the  eyes  of  the  girls — that  they  were  looking  strained, 
anxious,  and  irritable.  Men  are  quite  blind  in  these  mat- 
ters unless  they  have  more  of  the  woman  than  the  man 
in  their  composition,  in  which  case  it  does  not  matter 
what  they  say  or  think.  I  maintain  it  was  the  hot  April 
(lays  that  took  the  color  out  of  the  Copleigh  girls'  cheeks. 
They  should  have  been  sent  to  the  Hills  early.  No  one 
— man  or  woman — feels  an  angel  when  the  hot  weather 
is  approaching.  The  younger  sister  grew  more  cynical, 
not  to  say  acid,  in  her  ways;  and  the  winningness  of  the 
elder  wore  thin.     There  was  effort  in  it. 

The  Station  wherein  all  these  things  happened  was, 
though  not  a  little  one,  ofif  the  line  of  rail,  and  suffered 
through  want  of  attention.  There  were  no  gardens,  or 
bands  or  amusements  worth  speaking  of,  and  it  was 
nearly  a  day's  journey  to  come  into  Lahore  for  a  dance. 
People  were  grateful  for  small  things  to  interest  them. 

About  the  beginning  of  May,  and  just  before  the  final 
exodus  of  Hill-goers,  when  the  weather  was  very  hot 
and  there  were  not  more  than  twenty  people  in  the  Sta- 
tion, Saumarez  gave  a  moonlight  riding-picnic  at  an  old 
tomb,  six  miles  away,  near  the  bed  of  the  river.  It  was  a 
"Noah's  Ark"  picnic;  and  there  was  to  the  usual  ar- 
rangement of  quarter-mile  intervals  between  each  couple, 
on  account  of  the  dust.  Six  couples  came  altogether, 
including  chaperones.  Moonlight  picnics  are  useful  just 
at  the  very  end  of  the  season,  before  all  the  girls  go  away 
to  the  Hills.  They  lead  to  understandings,  and  should 
be  encouraged  by  chaperones;  especially  those  whose 
girls  look  sweetest  in  riding-habits.  I  knew  a  case  once. 
But  that  is  another  story.  That  picnic  was  called  the 
"Great  Pop  Picnic,"  because  every  one  knew  Saumarez 


44  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

would  propose  then  to  the  eldest  Miss  Copleigh;  and 
besides  his  affair,  there  was  another  which  might  possibly 
come  to  happiness.  The  social  atmosphere  was  heavily 
charged  and  wanted  clearing. 

We  met  at  the  parade-ground  at  ten;  the  night  was 
fearfully  hot.  The  horses  sweated  even  at  walking-pace, 
but  anything  was  better  than  sitting  still  in  our  own  dark 
houses.  When  we  moved  off  under  the  full  moon  we  were 
four  couples,  one  triplet,  and  Me.  Saumarez  rode  with 
the  Copleigh  girls,  and  I  loitered  at  the  tail  of  the  pro- 
cession wondering  with  whom  Saumarez  would  ride 
home.  Every  one  was  happy  and  contented;  but  we  all 
felt  that  things  were  going  to  happen.  We  rode  slowly; 
and  it  was  nearly  midnight  before  we  reached  the  old 
tomb,  facing  the  ruined  tank,  in  the  decayed  gardens 
where  we  were  going  to  eat  and  drink.  I  was  late  in 
coming  up;  and,  before  I  went  in  to  the  garden,  I  saw 
that  the  horizon  to  the  north  carried  a  faint,  dun-colored 
feather.  But  no  one  would  have  thanked  me  for  spoil- 
ing so  well-managed  an  entertainment  as  this  picnic — and 
a  dust  storm,  more  or  less,  does  no  great  harm. 

We  gathered  by  the  tank.  Some  one  had  brought  out 
a  banjo — which  is  a  most  sentimental  instrument — and 
three  or  four  of  us  sang.  You  must  not  laugh  at  this. 
Our  amusements  in  out-of-the-way  Stations  are  very  few 
indeed.  Then  we  talked  in  groups  or  together,  lying  un- 
der the  trees,  with  the  sun-baked  roses  dropping  their 
petals  on  our  feet,  until  supper  was  ready.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful supper,  as  cold  and  as  iced  as  you  could  wish;  and 
we  stayed  long  over  it. 

I  had  felt  that  the  air  was  growing  hotter  and  hotter; 
but  nobody  seemed  to  notice  it  until  the  moon  went  out 
and  a  burning  hot  wind  began  lashing  the  orange-trees 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  45 

with  a  sound  like  the  noise  of  the  sea.  Before  we  knew 
where  we  were,  the  dust-storm  was  on  us  and  everything 
was  roaring,  whirhng  darkness.  The  supper-table  was 
blown  bodily  into  the  tank.  We  were  afraid  of  staying 
anywhere  near  the  old  tomb  for  fear  it  might  be  blown 
down.  So  we  felt  our  way  to  the  orange-trees  where  the 
horses  were  picketed  and  waited  for  the  storm  to  blow 
over.  Then  the  little  light  that  was  left  vanished,  and 
you  could  not  see  your  hand  before  your  face.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  dust  and  sand  from  the  bed  of  the  river, 
that  filled  boots  and  pockets  and  drifted  down  necks  and 
coated  eyebrows  and  moustaches.  It  was  one  of  the 
worst  dust-storms  of  the  year.  We  were  all  huddled  to- 
gether close  to  the  trembling  horses,  with  the  thunder 
chattering  overhead,  and  the  lightning  spurting  like  water 
from  a  sluice,  all  ways  at  once.  There  was  no  danger,  of 
course,  unless  the  horses  broke  loose.  I  was  standing 
with  my  head  downwind  and  my  hands  over  my  mouth, 
hearing  the  trees  crashing  each  other.  I  could  not  see  who 
was  next  me  till  the  flashes  came.  Then  I  found  that  I 
was  packed  near  Saumarez  and  the  eldest  Miss  Copleigh, 
with  my  own  horse  just  in  front  of  me.  I  recognized 
the  eldest  Miss  Copleigh,  because  she  had  a  puggree 
round  her  helmet,  and  the  younger  had  not.  All  the 
electricity  in  the  air  had  gone  into  my  body  and  I  was 
quivering  and  tingling  from  head  to  foot — exactly  as  a 
corn  shoots  and  tingles  before  rain.  It  was  a  grand 
storm.  The  wind  seemed  to  be  picking  up  the  earth 
and  pitching  it  to  leeward  in  great  heaps;  and  the  heat 
beat  up  from  the  ground  like  the  heat  of  the  Day  of 
Judgment. 

The  storm  lulled  slightly  after  the    first    half    hour, 
aind  I  heard  a  despairing  little  voice  close  to  my  ear, 


46  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

saying  to  itself,  quietly  and  softly,  as  if  some  lost  soul 
were  flying  about  with  the  wind,  "O  my  God!"  Then 
the  younger  Miss  Copleigh  stumbled  into  my  arms,  say- 
ing, "Where  is  my  horse?  Get  my  horse.  I  want  to 
go  home.     I  want  to  go  home !     Take  me  home." 

I  thought  that  the  lightning  and  the  black  darkness 
had  frightened  her;  so  I  said  there  was  no  danger,  but 
she  must  wait  till  the  storm  blew  over.  She  answered, 
"It  is  not  that!  I  want  to  go  home!  Oh  take  me  away 
from  here!" 

I  said  that  she  could  not  go  till  the  light  came;  but 
I  felt  her  brush  past  me  and  go  away.  It  was  too  dark 
to  see  where.  Then  the  whole  sky  was  split  open  with 
one  tremendous  flash,  as  if  the  end  of  the  world  were 
coming,  and  all  the  women  shrieked. 

Almost  directly  after  this,  I  felt  a  man's  hand  on  my 
shoulder  and  heard  Saumarez  bellowing  in  my  ear. 
Through  the  rattling  of  the  trees  and  howling  of  the 
wind,  I  did  not  catch  his  words  at  once,  but  at  last  I 
heard  him  say,  "I've  proposed  to  the  wrong  one!  What 
shall  I  do?"  Saumarez  had  no  occasion  to  make  this 
confidence  to  me.  I  was  never  a  friend  of  his,  nor  am 
I  now;  but  I  fancy  neither  of  us  were  ourselves  just 
then.  He  was  shaking  as  he  stood  with  excitement, 
and  I  was  feeling  queer  all  over  with  electricity.  I  could 
not  think  of  anything  to  say  except  "More  fool  you  for 
proposing  in  a  dust-storm."  But  I  did  not  see  how  that 
would  improve  the  mistake. 

Then  he  shouted.  "Where's  Edith — Edith  Copleigh?" 
Edith  was  the  younger  sister.  I  answered  out  of  my 
astonishment,  "What  do  you  want  with  her?"  For  the 
next  two  minutes,  he  and  I  were  shouting  at  each  other 
like  maniacs, — he  vowing  that  it  was  the  younger  sister 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  47 

he  had  meant  to  propose  to  all  along,  and  I  telling  him 
till  my  throat  was  hoarse  that  he  must  have  made  a  mis- 
take! I  cannot  account  for  this  except,  again,  by  the 
fact  that  we  were  neither  of  us  ourselves.  Everything 
seemed  to  me  like  a  bad  dream — from  the  stamping  of 
the  horses  in  the  darkness  to  Saumarez  telling  me  the 
story  of  his  loving  Edith  Copleigh  from  the  first.  He 
was  still  clawing  my  shoulder  and  begging  me  to  tell  him 
where  Edith  Copleigh  was,  when  another  lull  came  and 
brought  light  with  it,  and  we  saw  the  dust-cloud  form- 
ing on  the  plain  in  front  of  us.  So  we  knew  the  worst 
was  over.  The  moon  was  low  down,  and  there  was  just 
the  glimmer  of  the  false  dawn  that  comes  about  an  hour 
before  the  real  one.  But  the  light  was  very  faint,  and 
the  dun  cloud  roared  like  a  bull.  I  wondered  where 
Edith  Copleigh  had  gone;  and  as  I  was  wondering  I 
saw  three  things  together:  First,  Maud  Copleigh's  face 
come  smiling  out  of  the  darkness  and  move  towards 
Saumarez  who  was  standing  by  me.  I  heard  the  girl 
whisper,  "George,"  and  slide  her  arm  through  the  arm 
that  was  not  clawing  my  shoulder,  and  I  saw  that  look 
on  her  face  which  only  comes  once  or  twice  in  a  life- 
time— when  a  woman  is  perfectly  happy  and  the  air  is 
full  of  trumpets  and  gorgeously-colored  fire  and  the 
Earth  turns  into  cloud  because  she  loves  and  is  loved. 
At  the  same  time,  I  saw  Saumarez's  face  as  he  heard 
Maud  Copleigh's  voice,  and  fifty  yards  away  from  the 
clump  of  orange  trees,  I  saw  a  brown  hoUand  habit  get- 
ting upon  a  horse. 

It  must  have  been  my  state  of  over-excitement  that 
made  me  so  ready  to  meddle  with  what  did  not  concern 
me.  Saumarez  was  moving  off  to  the  habit;  but  I 
pushed  him  back  and  said,  "Stop  here  and  explain.     I'll 


48  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

fetch  her  back !"  And  I  ran  out  to  get  at  my  own  horse. 
I  had  a  perfectly  unnecessary  notion  that  everything 
must  be  done  decently  and  in  order,  and  that  Saumarez's 
first  care  was  to  wipe  the  happy  look  out  of  Maud  Cop- 
leigh's  face.  All  the  time  I  was  linking  up  the  curb- 
chain  I  wondered  how  he  would  do  it. 

I  cantered  after  Edith  Copleigh,  thinking  to  bring 
her  back  slowly  on  some  pretense  or  another.  But  she 
galloped  away  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  and  I  was  forced 
to  ride  after  her  in  earnest.  She  called  back  over  her 
shoulder — "Go  away!  I'm  going  home.  Oh,  go  away!" 
two  or  three  times;  but  my  business  was  to  catch  her 
first,  and  argue  later.  The  ride  fitted  in  with  the  rest 
of  the  evil  dream.  The  ground  was  very  rough,  and 
now  and  again  we  rushed  through  the  whirling,  choking 
"dust-devils"  in  the  skirts  of  the  flying  storm.  There  was 
a  burning  hot  wind  blowing  that  brough  up  a  stench 
of  stale  brick-kilns  with  it;  and  through  the  half  light 
and  through  the  dust-devils,  across  that  desolate  plain, 
flickered  the  brown  holland  habit  on  the  gray  horse. 
She  headed  for  the  Station  at  first.  Then  she  wheeled 
round  and  set  ofif  for  the  river  through  beds  of  burnt- 
down  jungle-grass,  bad  even  to  ride  pig  over.  In  cold 
blood  I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  going  over  such 
a  country  at  night,  but  it  seemed  quite  right  and  natural 
with  the  lightning  crackling  overhead,  and  a  reek  like 
the  smell  of  the  Pit  in  my  nostrils.  I  rode  and  shouted, 
and  she  bent  forward  and  lashed  her  horse,  and  the  after- 
math of  the  dust  storm  came  up,  and  caught  us  botli, 
and  drove  us  downwind  like  pieces  of  paper. 

I  don't  know  how  far  we  rode;  but  the  drumming  of 
the  horse-hoofs  and  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  face 
of  the  faint  blood-red  moon  through  the  yellow  mist 
seemed  to  have  gone  on  for  years  and  years,  and  I  was  lit- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  49 

erally  drenched  with  sweat  from  my  helmet  to  my  gaiters 
when  the  gray  stumbled,  recovered  himself  and  pulled  up 
dead  lame.  My  brute  was  used  up  altogether.  Edith  Cop- 
leigh  was  bare  headed,  plastered  with  dust,  and  crying 
bitterly.  "Why  can't  you  let  me  alone?"  she  said.  "I 
only  wanted  to  get  away  and  go  home.  Oh,  please  let 
me  go!" 

"You  have  got  to  come  back  with  me,  Miss  Copleigh. 
Saumarez  has  something  to  say  to  you." 

It  was  a  foolish  way  of  putting  it;  but  I  hardly  knew 
Miss  Copleigh,  and,  though  I  was  playing  Providence 
at  the  cost  of  my  horse,  I  could  not  tell  her  in  as  many 
words  what  Saumarez  had  told  me.  I  thought  he  could 
do  that  better  himself.  All  her  pretense  about  being 
tired  and  wanting  to  go  home  broke  down,  and  she 
rocked  herself  to  and  fro  in  the  saddle  as  she  sobbed, 
and  the  hot  wind  blew  her  black  hair  to  leeward.  I  am 
not  going  to  repeat  what  she  said,  because  she  was 
utterly  unstrung. 

This  was  the  cynical  Miss  Copleigh,  and  I,  almost 
an  utter  stranger  to  her,  was  trying  to  tell  her  that  Sau- 
marez loved  her  and  she  was  to  come  back  to  hear  him 
say  so,  I  believe  I  made  myself  understood,  for  she 
gathered  the  gray  together  and  made  him  hobble  some- 
how, and  we  set  ofT  for  the  tomb,  while  the  storm  went 
thundering  down  to  Umballa  and  a  few  big  drops  of 
warm  rain  fell.  I  found  out  that  she  had  been  standing 
close  to  Saumarez  when  he  proposed  to  her  sister,  and 
had  wanted  to  go  home  to  cry  in  peace,  as  an  English 
girl  should.  She  dabbed  her  eyes  with  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief as  we  went  along,  and  babbled  to  me  out  of 
sheer  lightness  of  heart  and  hysteria.  That  was  per- 
fectly unnatural;  and  yet,  it  seemed  all  right  at  the  time 
and  in  the  place.     All  the  world  was  only  the  two  Cop- 


50  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

leigh  girls,  Saumarez  and  I,  ringed  in  with  the  Hght- 
ning  and  the  dark;  and  the  guidance  of  this  misguided 
world  seemed  to  lie  in  my  hands. 

When  we  returned  to  the  tomb  in  the  deep  dead  still- 
ness that  followed  the  storm,  the  dawn  was  just  break- 
ing and  nobody  had  gone  away.  They  were  waiting  for 
our  return.  Saumarez  most  of  all.  His  face  was  white 
and  drawn.  As  Miss  Copleigh  and  I  limped  up,  he 
came  forward  to  meet  us,  and  when  he  helped  her  down 
from  her  saddle,  he  kissed  her  before  all  the  picnic.  It 
was  like  a  scene  in  a  theatre,  and  the  likeness  was  height- 
ened by  all  the  dust-white,  ghostly-looking  men  and 
women  under  the  orange-trees  clapping  their  hands — 
as  if  they  were  watching  a  play — at  Saumarez's  choice. 
I  never  knew  anything  so  un-English  in  my  life. 

Lastly,  Saumarez  said  we  must  all  go  home  or  the 
Station  would  come  out  to  look  for  us,  and  would  I  be 
good  enough  to  ride  home  with  Maud  Copleigh?  Noth- 
ing would  give  me  greater  pleasure,  I  said. 

So  we  formed  up,  six  couples  in  all,  and  went  back 
two  by  two;  Saumarez  walking  at  the  side  of  Edith  Cop- 
leigh, who  was  riding  his  horse.  Maud  Copleigh  did 
not  talk  to  me  at  any  length. 

The  air  was  cleared;  and,  little  by  little,  as  the  sun 
rose,  I  felt  we  were  all  dropping  back  again  into  or- 
dinary men  and  women,  and  that  the  "Great  Pop  Picnic" 
was  a  thing  altogether  apart  and  out  of  the  world — never 
to  happen  again.  It  had  gone  with  the  dust-storm  and 
the  tingle  in  the  hot  air. 

I  felt  tired  and  limp,  and  a  good  deal  ashamed  of  my- 
self as  I  went  in  for  a  bath  and  some  sleep. 

There  is  a  woman's  version  of  this  story,  but  it  will 
never  be  written  .  .  .  unless  Maud  Copleigh 
cares  to  try. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  5 1 


THE  RESCUE  OF  PLUFFLES. 

< 
Thus,  for  a  season,  they  fought  it  fair — 

She  and  his  cousin  May — 
Tactful,  talented,  debonnaire, 

Decorous  foes  were  they; 
But  never  can  battle  of  man  compare 
With  merciless  feminine  fray. 

— Two  and  One. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  sometimes  nice  to  her  own  sex. 
Here  is  a  story  to  prove  this;  and  you  can  beHeve  just 
as  much  as  ever  you  please. 

Pluffles  was  a  subaltern  in  the  "Unmentionables."  He 
was  callow,  even  for  a  subaltern.  He  was  callow  all  over — 
like  a  canary  that  had  not  finished  fledging  itself.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  he  had  three  times  as  much  money 
as  was  good  for  him;  Pluffles'  Papa  being  a  rich  man 
and  Pluffles  being  the  only  son.  Pluffles'  Mamma 
adored  him.  She  was  only  a  little  less  callow  than  Pluf- 
fles, and  she  believed  everything  he  said. 

Pluffles'  weakness  was  not  believing  what  people  said. 
He  preferred  what  he  called  trusting  to  his  own  judg- 
ment. He  had  as  much  judgment  as  he  had  seat  or 
hands;  and  this  preference  tumbled  him  into  trouble 
once  or  twice.  But  the  biggest  trouble  Pluffles  ever 
manufactured  came  about  at  Simla — some  years  ago, 
when  he  was  four-and-twenty. 

He  began  by  trusting  to  his  own  judgment  as  usual, 
and  the  result  was  that,  after  a  time,  he  was  bound  hand 
and  foot  to  Mrs.  Reiver's  'rickshaw  wheels. 

There  was  nothing  good  about  Mrs.  Reiver,  unless  it 


52  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

was  her  dress.  She  was  bad  from  her  hair — which 
started  life  on  a  Brittany  girl's  head — to  her  boot-heels, 
which  were  two  and  three-eighth  inches  high.  She  was 
not  honestly  mischievous  like  Mrs.  Hauksbee;  she  was 
wicked  in  a  business-like  way. 

There  was  never  any  scandal — she  had  not  generous 
impulses  enough  for  that.  She  was  the  exception  which 
proved  the  rule  that  Anglo-Indian  ladies  are  in  every 
way  as  nice  as  their  sisters  at  Home.  She  spent  her  Hfe 
in  proving  that  rule. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  and  she  hated  each  other  fervently. 
They  hated  far  too  much  to  clash;  but  the  things  they 
said  of  each  other  were  startling — not  to  say  original. 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  honest — honest  as  her  own  front- 
teeth — and,  but  for  her  love  of  mischief,  would  have 
been  a  woman's  woman.  There  was  no  honesty  about 
Mrs.  Reiver;  nothing  but  selfishness.  And  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  season,  poor  little  Plufifles  fell  a  prey 
to  her.  She  laid  herself  out  to  that  end,  and  who  was 
Pluffles  to  resist?  He  trusted  to  his  judgment,  and  he 
got  judged. 

I  have  seen  Captain  Hayes  argue  with  a  tough  horse — 
I  have  seen  a  tonga-driver  coerce  a  stubborn  pony — I 
have  seen  a  riotous  setter  broken  to  gun  by  a  hard  keeper 
— but  the  breaking-in  of  Pluffles  of  the  "Unmentionables" 
was  beyond  all  these.  He  learned  to  fetch  and  carry 
like  a  dog,  and  to  wait  like  one,  too,  for  a  word  from 
Mrs.  Reiver.  He  learned  to  keep  appointments  which 
Mrs.  Reiver  had  no  intention  of  keeping.  He  learned 
to  take  thankfully  dances  which  Mrs.  Reiver  had  no 
intention  of  giving  him.  He  learned  to  shiver  for  an 
hour  and  a  quarter  on  the  windward  side  of  Elysium 
while  Mrs.  Reiver  was  making  up  her  mind  to  come 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  53 

for  a  ride.  He  learned  to  hunt  for  a  'rickshaw,  in  a  Hght 
dress-suit  under  pelting  rain,  and  to  walk  by  the  side  of 
that  'rickshaw  when  he  had  found  it.  He  learned  what 
it  was  to  be  spoken  to  like  a  coolie  and  ordered  about 
like  a  cook.  He  learned  all  this  and  many  other  things 
besides.     And  he  paid  for  his  schooling. 

Perhaps,  in  some  hazy  way,  he  fancied  that  is  was 
fine  and  impressive,  that  it  gave  him  a  status  among 
men,  and  was  altogether  the  thing  to  do.  It  was  no- 
body's business  to  warn  Pluffles  that  he  was  unwise. 
The  pace  that  season  was  too  good  to  inquire;  and 
meddling  with  another  man's  folly  is  always  thankless 
work.  PlufBes'  Colonel  should  have  ordered  him  back 
to  his  regiment  when  he  heard  how  things  were  going. 
But  Pluffles  had  got  himself  engaged  to  a  girl  in  Eng- 
land the  last  time  he  went  Home;  and,  if  there  was  one 
thing  more  than  another  that  the  Colonel  detested,  it 
was  a  married  subaltern.  He  chuckled  when  he  heard 
of  the  education  of  Pluffles,  and  said  it  was  good  training 
for  the  boy.  But  it  was  not  good  training  in  the  least. 
It  led  him  into  spending  money  beyond  his  means, 
which  were  good;  above  that,  the  education  spoilt  an 
average  boy  and  made  it  a  tenth-rate  man  of  an  objec- 
tionable kind.  He  wandered  into  a  bad  set,  and  his  little 
bill  at  the  jewelers  was  a  thing  to  wonder  at. 

Then  Mrs.  Hauksbee  rose  to  the  occasion.  She 
played  her  game  alone,  knowing  what  people  would  say 
of  her;  and  she  played  it  for  the  sake  of  a  girl  she  had 
never  seen.  Pluffles'  fiancee  was  to  come  out,  under 
chaperonage  of  an  aunt,  in  October,  to  be  married  to 
Pluffles. 

At  the  beginning  of  August,  Mrs.  Hauksbee  discov- 
ered that  it  was  time  to  interfere.     A  man  who  rides 


54  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

much  knows  exactly  what  a  horse  is  going  to  do  next 
before  he  does  it.  In  the  same  way,  a  woman  of  Mrs. 
Hauksbee's  experience  knows  accurately  how  a  boy  will 
behave  under  certain  circumstances — notably  when  he 
is  infatuated  with  one  of  Mrs.  Reiver's  stamp.  She  said 
that,  sooner  or  later,  little  Pluffles  would  break  oflf  that 
engagement  for  nothing  at  all — simply  to  gratify  Mrs. 
Reiver,  who,  in  return,  would  keep  him  at  her  feet  and 
in  her  service  just  so  long  as  she  found  it  worth  her 
while.  She  said  she  knew  the  signs  of  these  things.  If 
she  did  not  no  one  else  could. 

Then  she  went  forth  to  capture  Pluffles  under  the  gims 
of  the  enemy;  just  as  Mrs.  Cusack-Bremmil  carried  away 
Bremmil  under  Mrs.  Hauksbee's  eyes. 

This  particular  engagement  lasted  seven  weeks — we 
called  it  the  Seven  Weeks'  War — and  was  fought  out 
inch  by  inch  on  both  sides.  A  detailed  account  would 
fill  a  book,  and  would  be  incomplete  then.  Any  one  who 
knows  about  these  things  can  fit  in  the  details  for  himself. 
It  was  a  superb  fight — ^there  will  never  be  another  like  it 
as  long  as  Jakko  Hill  stands — and  Pluffles  was  the  prize 
of  victory.  People  said  shameful  things  about  Mrs. 
Hauksbee.  They  did  not  know  what  she  was  playing 
for.  Mrs.  Reiver  fought  partly  because  Pluffles  was 
useful  to  her,  but  mainly  because  she  hated  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee, and  the  matter  was  a  trial  of  strength  between  them. 
No  one  knows  what  Pluffles  thought.  He  had  not  many 
ideas  at  the  best  of  times,  and  the  few  he  possessed  made 
him  conceited.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  said,  "The  boy  must  be 
caught;  and  the  only  way  of  catching  him  is  by  treating 
him  well." 

So  she  treated  him  as  a  man  of  the  world  and  of  ex- 
perience so  long  as  the  issue  was  doubtful.     Little  by 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  55 

little,  Pluffles  fell  away  from  his  old  allegiance  and  came 
over  to  the  enemy,  by  whom  he  was  made  much  of.  He 
was  never  sent  on  out-post  duty  after  'rickshaws  any 
more,  nor  was  he  given  dances  which  never  came  off, 
nor  were  the  drains  on  his  purse  continued.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  held  him  on  the  snaffle;  and,  after  his  treat- 
ment at  Mrs,  Reiver's  hands,  he  appeciated  the  change. 

Mrs.  Reiver  had  broken  him  of  talking  about  him- 
self, and  made  him  talk  about  her  own  merits.  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  acted  otherwise,  and  won  his  confidence,  till 
he  mentioned  his  engagement  to  the  girl  at  Home, 
speaking  of  it  in  a  high  and  mighty  way  as  a  piece  of  boy- 
ish folly.  This  was  when  he  was  taking  tea  with  her  one 
afternoon,  and  discoursing  in  what  he  considered  a  gay 
and  fascinating  style.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  seen  an 
earlier  generation  of  his  stamp  bud  and  blossom,  and 
decay  into  fat  Captains  and  tubby  Majors. 

At  a  moderate  estimate  there  were  about  three-and- 
twenty  sides  to  that  lady's  character.  Some  men  say 
more.  She  began  to  talk  to  Pluffles  after  the  manner 
of  a  mother,  and  as  if  there  had  been  three  hundred  years 
instead  of  fifteen,  between  them.  She  spoke- with  a  sort 
of  throaty  quaver  in  her  voice  which  had  a  soothing  ef- 
fect, though  what  she  said  was  anything  but  soothing. 
She  pointed  out  the  exceeding  folly,  not  to  say  mean- 
ness, of  Plufifles'  conduct  and  the  smallness  of  his  views. 
Then  he  stammered  something  about  "trusting  to  his 
own  judgment  as  a  man  of  the  world;"  and  this  paved  the 
way  for  what  she  wanted  to  say  next.  It  would  have 
withered  up  Pluffles  had  it  come  from  any  other  woman ; 
but,  in  the  soft  cooing  style  in  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
put  it,  it  only  made  him  feel  limp  and  repentant — as  if 
he  had  been  in  some  superior  kind  of  church.     Little 


56  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

by  little,  very  softly  and  pleasantly,  she  began  taking 
the  conceit  out  of  Plufifles,  as  they  take  the  ribs  out  of 
an  umbrella  before  re-covering  it.  She  told  him  what 
she  thought  of  him  and  his  judgment  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  world;  and  how  his  performances  had  made 
him  ridiculous  to  other  people;  and  how  it  was  his  in- 
tention to  make  love  to  herself  if  she  gave  him  the  chance. 
Then  she  said  that  marriage  would  be  the  making  of 
him;  and  drew  a  pretty  little  picture — all  rose  and  opal 
— of  the  Mrs.  Pluffles  of  the  future  going  through  life 
relying  on  the  judgment  and  knowledge  of  the  world 
of  a  husband  who  had  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with. 
How  she  reconciled  these  two  statements  she  alone  knew. 
But  they  did  not  strike  Pluffles  as  conflicting. 

Hers  was  a  perfect  little  homily — much  better  than 
any  clergyman  could  have  given — and  it  ended  with 
touching  allusions  to  Pluffles'  Mamma  and  Papa,  and 
the  wisdom  of  taking  his  bride  Home. 

Then  she  sent  Pluffles  out  for  a  walk,  to  think  over 
what  she  had  said.  Pluffles  left,  blowing  his  nose  very 
hard  and  holding  himself  very  straight.  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee  laughed. 

What  Pluffles  had  intended  to  do  in  the  matter  of  the 
engagement  only  Mrs.  Reiver  knew,  and  she  kept  her 
own  counsel  to  her  death.  She  would  have  liked  it 
spoiled  as  a  compliment,  I  fancy. 

Pluffles  enjoyed  many  talks  with  Mrs.  Hauksbee  dur- 
ing the  next  few  days.  They  were  all  to  the  same  end, 
and  they  helped  Pluffles  in  the  path  of  Virtue. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  wanted  to  keep  him  under  her  wing 
to  the  last.  Therefore  she  discountenanced  his  going 
down  to  Bombay  to  get  married.  "Goodness  only  knovvs 
what  might  happen  by  the  way!"  she  said.     "Pluffles  is 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  57 

cursed  with  the  curse  of  Reuben,  and  India  is  no  fit 
place  for  him !" 

In  the  end,  the  fiancee  arrived  with  her  aunt;  and  Pluf- 
fles,  having  reduced  his  affairs  to  some  sort  of  order — 
here  again  Mrs.  Hauksbee  helped  him — was  married. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  both  the 
"I  wills"  had  been  said,  and  went  her  way. 

Plufitles  took  her  advice  about  going  Home.  He  left 
the  Service  and  is  now  raising  speckled  cattle  inside 
green  painted  fences  somewhere  in  England.  I  believe 
he  does  this  very  judiciously.  He  would  have  come  to 
extreme  grief  in  India. 

For  these  reasons,  if  any  one  says  anything  more  than 
usually  nasty  about  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  tell  him  the  story 
of  the  Rescue  of  Plufifles. 


S8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


CUPID'S  ARROWS. 

Pit  where  the  buffalo  cooled  his  hide, 

By  the  hot  sun  emptied,  and  blistered  and  dried; 

Log  in  the  plume-grass,  hidden  and  lone; 

Dam  where  the  earth-rat's  mounds  are  strown; 

Cave  in  the  bank  where  the  sly  stream  steals; 

Aloe  that  stabs  at  the  belly  and  heels, 

Jump  if  you  dare  on  a  steed  untried — 

Safer  it  is  to  go  wide — go  wide! 

Hark,  from  in  front  where  the  best  men  ride:  — 

'Pull  to  the  off,  boys!     Wide!     Go  wide!' 

—The  Peora  Hunt. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  at  Simla  a  very  pretty  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  poor  but  honest  District  and  Sessions 
Judge.  She  was  a  good  girl  but  could  not  help  know- 
ing her  power  and  using  it.  Her  Mamma  was  very 
anxious  about  her  daughter's  future,  as  all  good  Mam- 
mas should  be. 

When  a  man  is  a  Commissioner  and  a  bachelor  and 
has  the  right  of  wearing  open-work  jam-tart  jewels  in 
gold  and  enamel  on  his  clothes,  and  of  going  through 
a  door  before  every  one  except  a  Member  of  Council, 
a  Lieutenant-Governor,  or  a  Viceroy,  he  is  worth  mar- 
rying. At  least,  that  is  what  ladies  say.  There  was  a 
Commissioner  in  Simla,  in  those  days,  who  was,  and 
wore  and  did  all  I  have  said.  He  was  a  plain  man — 
an  ugly  man — the  ugliest  man  in  Asia,  with  two  excep- 
tions. His  was  a  face  to  dream  about  and  try  to  carve 
on  a  pipe-head  afterwards.  His  name  was  Saggott — 
Barr-Saggott — Anthony  Barr  Saggott  and  six  letters  to 
follow.     Departmentally,  he  was  one  of  the  best  men 


PLAIN  TALES   FROM  THE  HILLS.  5Q 

the  Government  of  India  owned.  Socially,  he  was  like 
unto  a  blandishing  gorilla. 

When  he  turned  his  attentions  to  Miss  Beighton,  I 
believe  that  Mrs.  Beighton  wept  with  delight  at  the  re- 
ward Providence  had  sent  her  in  her  old  age. 

Mr.  Beighton  held  his  tongue.  He  was  an  easy-going 
man. 

A  Commissioner  is  very  rich.  His  pay  is  beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice — 'is  so  enormous  that  he  can  afford  to 
save  and  scrape  in  a  way  that  would  almost  discredit  a 
Member  of  Council.  Most  Commissioners  are  mean; 
but  Barr-Saggott  was  an  exception.  He  entertained  roy- 
ally; he  horsed  himself  well;  he  gave  dances;  he  was  a 
power  in  the  land;  and  he  behaved  as  such. 

Consider  that  everything  I  am  writing  of  took  place 
in  an  almost  pre-historic  era  in  the  history  of  British 
India.  Some  folk  may  remember  the  years  before  lawn- 
tennis  was  born  when  we  all  played  croquet.  There 
were  seasons  before  that,  if  you  will  believe  me,  when 
even  croquet  had  not  been  invented,  and  archery — which 
was  revived  in  England  in  1844 — was  as  great  a  pest  as 
lawn-tennis  is  now.  People  talked  learnedly  about  "hold- 
ing" and  "loosing,"  "steles,"  "reflexed  bows,"  "56-pound 
bows,"  "backed"  or  "self-yew  bows,"  as  we  talk  about  "ral- 
lies," "volleys,"  "smashes,"  "returns,"  and  "i6-ounce 
rackets." 

Miss  Beighton  shot  divinely  over  ladies'  distance — 
60  yards,  that  is — and  was  acknowledged  the  best  lady 
archer  in  Simla.     Men  called  her  "Diana  of  Tara-Devi." 

Barr-Saggott  paid  her  great  attention;  and,  as  I  have 
said,  the  heart  of  her  mother  was  uplifted  in  consequence. 
Kitty  Beighton  took  matters  more  calmly.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  be  singled  out  by  a  Commissioner  with  letters 


6o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

atter  his  name,  and  to  fill  the  hearts  of  other  girls  with 
bad  feelings.  But  there  was  no  denying  the  fact  that 
Barr-Saggott  was  phenomenally  ugly;  and  all  his  at- 
tempts to  adorn  himself  only  made  him  more  grotesque. 
He  was  not  christened  "The  Langur" — which  means  gray 
ape — for  nothing.  It  was  pleasant,  Kitty  thought,  to 
have  him  at  her  feet,  but  it  was  better  to  escape  from  him 
and  ride  with  the  graceless  Cubbon — 'the  man  in  a  Dra- 
goon Regiment  at  Umballa — the  boy  with  a  handsome 
face,  and  no  prospects.  Kitty  liked  Cubbon  more  than 
a  little.  He  never  pretended  for  a  moment  that  he  was 
anything  less  than  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her;  for 
he  was  an  honest  boy.  So  Kitty  fled,  now  and  again, 
from  the  stately  wooings  of  Barr-Saggott  to  the  com- 
pany of  young  Cubbon,  and  was  scolded  by  her  Mamma 
in  consequence.  "But,  Mother,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Saggott 
is  such — such  a — is  so  fearfully  ugly,  you  know !" 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Beighton,  piously,  "we  cannot 
be  other  than  an  all-ruling  Providence  has  made  us. 
Besides,  you  will  take  precedence  of  your  own  Mother, 
you  know!     Think  of  that  and  be  reasonable." 

Then  Kitty  put  up  her  little  chin  and  said  irreverent 
things  about  precedence,  and  Commissioners,  and  matri- 
mony. Mr.  Beighton  rubbed  the  top  of  his  head;  for  he 
was  an  easy-going  man. 

I.ate  in  the  season,  when  he  judged  that  the  time  was 
ripe,  Barr-Saggott  developed  a  plan  which  did  great 
credit  to  his  administrative  powers.  He  arranged  an 
archery-tournament  for  ladies,  with  a  most  sumptuous 
diamond-studded  bracelet  as  prize.  He  drew  up  his 
terms  skillfully,  and  every  one  saw  that  the  bracelet  was 
a  gift  to  Miss  Beighton;  the  acceptance  carrying  with 
it  the  hand  and  the  heart  of  Commissioner  Barr-Saggott. 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  6l 

The  terms  were  a  St.  Leonard's  Round — thirty-six  shots 
at  sixty  yards — under  the  rules  of  the  Simla  Toxophilite 
Society. 

All  Simla  was  invited.  There  were  beautifully  ar- 
ranged tea-tables  under  the  deodars  at  Annandale,  where 
the  Grand  Stand  is  now;  and,  alone  in  its  glory,  winking 
in  the  sun,  sat  the  diamond  bracelet  in  a  blue  velvet  case. 
]\Iiss  Beighton  was  anxious — almost  too  anxious — to 
compete.  On  the  appointed  afternoon  all  Simla  rode 
down  to  Annandale  to  witness  the  Judgment  of  Paris 
turned  upside  down.  Kitty  rode  with  young  Cubbon, 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  boy  was  troubled  in  his 
mind.  He  must  be  held  innocent  of  everything  that 
followed.  Kitty  was  pale  and  nervous,  and  looked  long 
at  the  bracelet.  Barr-Saggott  was  gorgeously  dressed, 
even  more  nervous  than  Kitty,  and  more  hideous  than 
ever. 

Mrs.  Beighton  smiled  condescendingly,  as  befitted  the 
mother  of  a  potential  Commissioneress,  and  the  shooting 
began;  all  the  world  standing  a  semicircle  as  the  ladies 
came  out  one  after  the  other. 

Nothing  is  so  tedious  as  an  archery  competition.  They 
shot,  and  they  shot,  and  they  kept  on  shooting,  till  the 
sun  left  the  valley,  and  little  breezes  got  up  in  the  deo- 
dars, and  people  waited  for  Miss  Beighton  to  shoot  and 
win.  Cubbon  was  at  one  horn  of  the  semicircle  round 
the  shooters  and  Barr-Saggott  at  the  other.  Miss 
Beighton  was  last  on  the  list.  The  scoring  had  been 
weak,  and  the  bracelet,  with  Commissioner  Barr-Saggott, 
was  hers  to  a  certainty. 

The  Commissioner  strung  her  bow  with  his  own  sacred 
hands.     She  stepped  forward,  looked  at  the  bracelet,  and 


62  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

her  first  arrow  went  true  to  a  hair — full  into  the  heart  of 
the  "gold" — counting  nine  points 

Young  Cubbon  on  the  left  turned  white,  and  his  Devil 
prompted  Barr-Saggott  to  smile.  Now  horses  used  to 
shy  when  Barr-Saggott  smiled.  Kitty  saw  that  smile. 
She  looked  at  her  left-front,  gave  an  almost  impercept- 
ible nod  to  Cubbon,  and  went  on  shooting. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  scene  that  followed.  It 
was  out  of  the  ordinary  and  most  improper.  Miss  Kitty 
fitted  her  arrows  with  immense  deliberation,  so  that 
every  one  might  see  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  a 
perfect  shot;  and  her  46-pound  bow  suited  her  to  a 
nicety.  She  pinned  the  wooden  legs  of  the  target  with 
great  care  four  successive  times.  She  pinned  the  wooden 
top  of  the  target  once,  and  all  the  ladies  looked  at  each 
other.  Then  she  began  some  fancy  shooting  at  the 
white,  which,  if  you  hit  it,  counts  exactly  one  point.  She 
put  five  arrows  into  the  white.  It  was  wonderful  arch- 
ery; but,  seeing  that  her  business  was  to  make  "golds" 
and  win  the  bracelet,  Barr-Saggott  turned  a  delicate 
green  like  young  water-grass.  Next,  she  shot  over  the 
target  twice,  then  wide  to  the  left  twice — always  with 
the  same  deliberation — while  a  chilly  hush  fell  over  the 
company,  and  Mrs.  Beighton  took  out  her  handkerchief. 
Then  Kitty  shot  at  the  ground  in  front  of  the  target,  and 
split  several  arrows.  Then  she  made  a  red — or  seven 
points — just  to  show  what  she  could  do  if  she  liked,  and 
she  finished  up  her  amazing  performance  with  some 
more  fancy  shooting  at  the  target  supports.  Here  is 
her  score  as  it  was  pricked  ofif: — 

Total    Total 
Gold.     Red.    Blue.     Black.  White.      hits.    Score. 
Miss  Beighton  .110  0  5  7  21 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  63 

Barr-Saggott  looked  as  if  the  last  few  arrow-heads  had 
been  driven  into  his  legs  instead  of  the  target's  and  the 
deep  stillness  was  broken  by  a  little  snubby,  mottled,  half- 
grown  girl  saying  in  a  shrill  voice  of  triumph,  "Then  I've 
won!" 

Mrs.  Beighton  did  her  best  to  bear  up;  but  she  wept 
in  the  presence  of  the  people.  No  training  could  help 
her  through  such  a  disappointment.  Kitty  unstrung  her 
bow  with  a  vicious  jerk,  and  went  back  to  her  place, 
while  Barr-Saggott  was  trying  to  pretend  that  he  en- 
joyed snapping  the  bracelet  on  the  snubby  girl's  raw,  red 
wrist.  It  was  an  awkward  scene — most  awkward. 
Every  one  tried  to  depart  in  a  body  and  leave  Kitty  to 
the  mercy  of  her  Mamma. 

But  Cubbon  took  her  away  instead,  and — the  rest 
isn't  worth  printing. 


64  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


HIS  CHANCE  IN  LIFE. 

Then  a  pile  of  heads  he  laid — 

Thirty  thousands  heaped  on  high — 
All  to  please  the  Kafir  maid, 
Where  the  Oxus  ripples  by. 
Grimly  spake  Atulla  Khan:  — 
'Love  hath  made  this  thing  a  Man.' 

— Oatta's  Story. 

If  you  go  straight  away  from  Levees  and  Government 
House  Lists,  past  Trades'  Balls — far  beyond  everything 
and  everybody  you  ever  knew  in  your  respectable  life — 
you  cross,  in  time,  the  Borderline  where  the  last  drop  of 
White  blood  ends  and  the  full  tide  of  Black  sets  in.  It 
would  be  easier  to  talk  to  a  new-made  Duchess  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  than  to  the  Borderline  folk  without 
violating  some  of  their  conventions  or  hurting  their  feel- 
ings. The  Black  and  the  White  mix  very  quaintly  in 
their  ways.  Sometimes  the  White  shows  in  spurts  of 
fierce,  childish  pride — which  is  Pride  of  Race  run  crook- 
ed— and  sometimes  the  Black  in  still  fiercer  abasement 
and  humility,  half-heathenish  customs  and  strange,  unac- 
countable impulses  to  crime.  One  of  these  days,  this 
people — understand  they  are  far  lower  than  the  class 
whence  Derozio,  the  man  who  imitated  Byron,  sprung — 
will  turn  out  a  writer  or  a  poet;  and  then  we  shall  know 
how  they  live  and  what  they  feel.  In  the  meantime,  any 
stories  about  them  cannot  be  absolutely  correct  in  fact 
or  inference. 

Miss  Vezzis  came  from  across  the  Borderline  to  look 
after  some  children  who  belonged  to  a  lady  until  a  reg- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE   HILLS.  65 

ularly  ordained  nurse  could  come  out.  The  lady  said 
Miss  Vezzis  was  a  bad,  dirty  nurse  and  inattentive.  It 
never  struck  her  that  Miss  Vezzis  had  her  own  life  to  lead 
and  her  own  affairs  to  worry  over,  and  that  these  affairs 
were  the  most  important  things  in  the  world  to  Miss 
Vezzis.  Very  few  mistresses  admit  this  sort  of  reasoning. 
Miss  Vezzis  was  as  black  as  a  boot,  and,  to  our  standard 
of  taste,  hideously  ugly.  She  wore  cotton-print  gowns 
and  bulged  shoes;  and  when  she  lost  her  temper  with 
the  children,  she  abused  them  in  the  language  of  the 
Borderline — which  is  part  English,  part  Portuguese,  and 
part  Native.  She  was  not  attractive,  but  she  had  her 
pride,  and  she  preferred  being  called  "Miss  Vezzis," 

Every  Sunday,  she  dressed  herself  wonderfully  and 
went  to  see  her  Mamma,  who  lived,  for  the  most  part,  on 
an  old  cane  chair  in  a  greasy  tussur-silk  dressing-gown 
and  a  big  rabbit-warren  of  a  house  full  of  Vezzises,  Per- 
eiras,  Ribieras,  Lisboas  and  Gonsalveses,  and  a  floating 
population  of  loafers;  besides  fragments  of  the  day's 
market,  garlic,  stale  incense,  clothes  thrown  on  the 
floor,  petticoats  hung  on  strings  for  screens,  old  bottles, 
pewter  crucifixes,  dried  immortelles,  pariah  puppies,  plas- 
ter images  of  the  Virgin,  and  hats  without  crowns.  Miss 
Vezzis  drew  twenty  rupees  a  month  for  acting  as  nurse, 
and  she  squabbled  weekly  with  her  Mamma  as  to  the  per- 
centage to  be  given  towards  housekeeping.  When  the 
quarrel  was  over,  Michele  D'Cruze  used  to  shamble  across 
the  low  mud  wall  of  the  compound  and  make  love  to  Miss 
Vezzis  after  the  fashion  of  the  Borderline,  which  is  hedged 
about  with  much  ceremony.  Michele  was  a  poor,  sickly 
weed  and  very  black;  but  he  had  his  pride.  He  would 
not  be  seen  smoking  a  huqa  for  anything;  and  he  looked 
down  on  natives  as  only  a  man  with  seven-eighths  native 
6 


(£  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

blood  in  his  veins  can.  The  Vezzis  family  had  their  pride 
too.  They  traced  their  descent  from  a  mythical  plate- 
layer who  had  worked  on  the  Sone  Bridge  when  railways 
were  new  in  India,  and  they  valued  their  English  origin. 
Michele  was  a  Telegraph  Signaller  on  Rs.35  a  month. 
The  fact  that  he  was  in  Government  employ  made  Mrs. 
Vezzis  lenient  to  the  shortcomings  of  his  ancestors. 

There  was  a  compromising  legend — Dom  Anna  the 
tailor  brought  it  from  Poonani — that  a  black  Jew  of 
Cochin  had  once  married  into  the  D'Cruze  family;  while 
it  was  an  open  secret  that  an  uncle  of  Mrs.  D'Cruze  was, 
at  that  very  time,  doing  menial  work,  connected  with 
cooking,  for  a  Club  in  Southern  India!  He  sent  Mrs. 
D'Cruze  seven  rupees  eight  annas  a  month;  but  she 
felt  the  disgrace  to  the  family  very  keenly  all  the  same. 

However,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  Mrs.  Vezzis 
brought  herself  to  overlook  these  blemishes  and  gave 
her  consent  to  the  marriage  of  her  daughter  with 
Michele,  on  condition  that  Michele  should  have  at  least 
fifty  rupees  a  month  to  start  married  life  upon.  This 
wonderful  prudence  must  have  been  a  lingering  touch 
of  the  mythical  platelayer's  Yorkshire  blood;  for  across 
frhe  Borderline  people  take  a  pride  in  marrying  when 
they  please — not  when  they  can. 

Having  regard  to  his  departmental  prospects,  Miss 
Vezzis  might  as  well  have  asked  Michele  to  go  away  and 
come  back  with  the  Moon  in  his  pocket.  But  Michele 
was  deeply  in  love  with  Miss  Vezzis,  and  that  helped  him 
to  endure.  He  accompanied  Miss  Vezzis  to  Mass  one 
Sunday,  and  after  Mass,  walking  home  through  the  hot 
stale  dust  with  her  hand  in  his,  he  swore  by  several  Saints 
whose  names  would  not  interest  you,  never  to  forget  Miss 
Vezzis;  and  she  swore  by  her  Honor  and  the  Saints — 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  67 

the  oath  runs  rather  curiously;  ''In  nomitie  Sanctissi- 
ffiae  — "  (whatever  the  name  of  the  she-Saint  is)  and  so 
forth,  ending  with  a  kiss  on  the  forehead,  a  kiss  on  the 
left  oheek,  and  a  kiss  on  the  mouth — never  to  forget 
Michele. 

Next  week  Michele  was  transferred,  and  Miss  Vezzis 
dropped  tears  upon  the  window-sash  of  the  "Intermedi- 
ate" compartment  as  he  left  the  Station. 

If  you  look  at  the  telegraph-map  of  India  you  will  see 
a  long  line  skirting  the  coast  from  Backergunge  to 
Madras.  Michele  was  ordered  to  Tibasu,  a  little  Sub- 
ofifice  one-third  down  this  line,  to  send  messages  on  from 
Berhampur  to  Chicacola,  and  to  think  of  Miss  Vezzis  and 
his  chances  of  getting  fifty  rupees  a  month  out  of  office- 
hours.  He  had  the  noise  of  the  Bay  of  Bengal  and  a 
Bengali  Babu  for  company;  nothing  more.  He  sent 
foolish  letters,  with  crosses  tucked  inside  the  flaps  of  the 
envelopes,  to  Miss  Vezzis. 

When  he  had  been  at  Tibasu  for  nearly  three  weeks  his 
chance  came. 

Never  forget  that  unless  the  outward  and  visible  signs 
of  Our  Authority  are  always  before  a  native  he  is  as  in- 
capable as  a  child  of  understanding  what  authority  means, 
or  where  is  the  danger  of  disobeying  it.  Tibasu  was  a 
forgotten  little  place  with  a  few  Orissa  Mahommedans  in 
it.  These,  hearing  nothing  of  the  Collector-Sahib  for 
some  time,  and  heartily  despising  the  Hindu  Sub-Judge, 
arranged  to  start  a  little  Mohurrum  riot  of  their  own.  But 
the  Hindus  turned  out  and  broke  their  heads;  when,  find- 
ing lawlessness  pleasant,  Hindus  and  Mahommedans  to- 
gether raised  an  aimless  sort  of  Donnybrook  just  to  see 
how  far  they  could  go.  They  looted  each  others'  shops, 
and  paid  of?  private  grudges  in  the  regular  way.     It  was  a 


68  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

nasty   little   riot,   but   not  worth   putting   in   the  news- 
papers. 

Michele  was  working  in  his  office  when  he  heard  the 
sound  that  a  man  never  forgets  all  his  life — the  "ah-yah" 
of  an  angry  crowd.  [When  that  sound  drops  about  three 
tones,  and  changes  to  a  thick,  droning  ut,  the  man  who 
hears  it  had  better  go  away  if  he  is  alone.]  The  Native 
Police  Inspector  ran  in  and  told  Michele  that  the  town 
was  in  an  uproar  and  coming  to  wreck  the  Telegraph 
Office.  The  Babu  put  on  his  cap  and  quietly  dropped 
out  of  the  window;  while  the  Police  Inspector,  afraid, 
but  obeying  the  old  race-instinct  which  recognizes  a  drop 
of  White  blood  as  far  as  it  can  be  diluted,  said,  "What 
orders  does  the  Sahib  give?" 

The  "Sahib"  decided  Michele.  Though  horribly 
frightened,  he  felt  that,  for  the  hour,  he,  the  man  with 
the  Cochin  Jew  and  the  menial  uncle  in  his  pedigree,  was 
the  only  representative  of  English  authority  in  the  place. 
Then  he  thought  of  Miss  Vezzis  and  the  fifty  rupees,  and 
took  the  situation  on  himself.  There  were  seven  native 
policemen  in  Tibasu,  and  four  crazy  smooth-bore  muskets 
among  them.  All  the  men  were  gray  with  fear,  but  not 
beyond  leading.  Michele  dropped  the  key  of  the  tele- 
graph instrument,  and  went  out,  at  the  head  of  his  army, 
to  meet  the  mob.  As  the  shouting  crew  came  round 
a  corner  of  the  road,  he  dropped  and  fired;  the  men  be- 
hind him  loosing  instinctively  at  the  same  time. 

The  whole  crowd — curs  to  the  back-bone — ^yelled  and 
ran;  leaving  one  man  dead,  and  another  dying  in  the 
road.  Michele  was  sweating  with  fear;  but  he  kept  his 
weakness  under,  and  went  down  into  the  town,  past  the 
house  where  the  Sub-Judge  had  barricaded  himself.    The 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  69 

streets  were  empty.  Tibasu  was  more  frightened  than 
Michele,  for  the  mob  had  been  taken  at  the  right  time. 

Michele  returned  to  the  Telegraph-Office,  and  sent  a 
message  to  Chicacola  asking  for  help.  Before  an  answer 
came,  he  received  a  deputation  of  the  elders  of  Tibasu, 
telling  him  that  the  Sub-Judge  said  his  actions  gen- 
erally were  "unconstitutional,"  and  trying  to  bully  him. 
But  the  heart  of  Michele  D'Cruze  was  big  and  white  in 
his  breast,  because  of  his  love  for  Miss  Vezzis,  the  nurse- 
girl,  and  because  he  had  tasted  for  the  first  time  Respon- 
sibility and  Success.  Those  two  make  an  intoxicating 
drink,  and  have  ruined  more  men  than  ever  has  whisky. 
INIichele  answered  that  the  Sub-Judge  might  say  wliat  he 
pleased,  but,  until  the  Assistant  Collector  came,  the  Tele- 
graph Signaller  was  the  Government  of  India  in  Tibasu, 
and  the  elders  of  the  town  would  be  held  accountable  for 
further  rioting.  Then  they  bowed  their  heads  and  said, 
"show  mercy !"  or  words  to  that  effect,  and  went  back  in 
great  fear;  each  accusing  the  other  of  having  begun  the 
rioting. 

Early  in  the  dawn,  after  a  night's  patrol  with  his  seven 
policemen,  Michele  went  down  the  road,  musket  in  hand, 
to  meet  the  Assistant  Collector  who  had  ridden  in  to  quell 
Tibasu.  But,  in  the  presence  of  this  young  Englishman, 
Michele  felt  himself  slipping  back  more  and  more  into 
the  native;  and  the  tale  of  the  Tibasu  Riots  ended,  with 
the  strain  on  the  teller,  in  an  hysterical  outburst  of  ears, 
bred  by  sorrow  that  he  had  killed  a  man,  shame  that  he 
could  not  feel  as  uplifted  as  he  had  felt  through  the  night, 
and  childish  anger  that  his  tongue  could  not  do  justice  to 
his  great  deeds.  It  was  the  White  drop  in  Michele's 
veins  dying  out,  though  he  did  not  know  it. 

But  the   Englishman  understood,  and,  after  he   had 


yo  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

schooled  those  men  of  Tibasu,  and  had  conferred  with 
the  Sub-Judge  till  that  excellent  ofificial  turned  green, 
he  found  time  to  draft  an  official  letter  describing  the 
conduct  of  Michele.  Which  letter  filtered  through  the 
Proper  Channels,  and  ended  in  the  transfer  of  Michele 
up-country  once  more,  on  the  Imperial  salary  of  sixty-six 
rupees  a  month.  « 

So  he  and  Miss  Vezzis  were  married  with  great  state 
and  ancientry;  and  now  there  are  several  little  D'Cruzes 
sprawling  about  the  verandahs  of  the  Central  Telegraph 
Ofifice. 

But  if  the  whole  revenue  of  the  Department  he  serves 
were  to  be  his  reward,  Michele  could  never,  never  repeat 
what  he  did  at  Tibasu  for  the  sake  of  Miss  Vezzis  the 
nurse-girl. 

Which  proves  that,  when  a  man  does  good  work  out  of 
all  proportion  to  his  pay,  in  seven  cases  out  of  nine,  there 
is  a  woman  at  the  back  of  the  virtue. 

The  two  exceptions  must  have  suffered  from  sunstroke. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  7I 


WATCHES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

What  is  in  the  Brahman's  books  that  is  in  the  Brahman's 
heart.  Neither  you  nor  I  knew  there  was  so  much  evil  in  the 
world. — Hindu  Proverb. 

This  began  in  a  practical  joke;  but  it  has  gone  far 
enough  now,  and  is  getting  serious. 

Platte,  the  Subaltern,  being  poor,  had  a  Waterbury 
watch  and  a  plain  leather  guard. 

The  Colonel  had  a  Waterbury  watch  also,  and,  for 
guard,  the  lip-strap  of  a  curb-chain.  Lip-straps  make  the 
best  watch-guards.  They  are  strong  and  short.  Be- 
tween a  lip-strap  and  an  ordinary  leather-guard  there 
is  no  great  difference;  between  one  Waterbury  watch 
and  another  none  at  all.  Every  one  in  the  Station  knew 
the  Colonel's  lip-strap.  He  was  not  a  horsey  man,  but 
he  liked  people  to  believe  he  had  been  one  once;  and  he 
wove  fantastic  stories  of  the  hunting-bridle  to  which  this 
particular  lip-strap  had  belonged.  Otherwise  he  was 
painfully  religious. 

Platte  and  the  Colonel  were  dressing  at  the  Club — both 
late  for  their  engagements,  and  both  in  a  hurry.  That 
was  Kismet.  The  two  watches  were  on  a  shelf  below  the 
looking-glass — guards  hanging  down.  That  was  care- 
lessness. Platte  changed  first,  snatched  a  watch,  looked 
in  the  glass,  settled  his  tie,  and  ran.  Forty  seconds 
later,  the  Colonel  did  exactly  the  same  thing,  each  man 
taking  the  other's  watch. 

You  may  have  noticed  that  many  religious  people  are 
deeply  suspicious.     They  seem — for  purely  religious  pur- 


y2,  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

poses,  cf  course — to  know  more  about  iniquity  than  the 
Unregenerate.  Perhaps  they  were  specially  bad  before 
they  became  converted!  At  any  rate,  in  the  imputation 
of  things  evil,  and  in  putting  the  worst  construction  on 
things  innocent,  a  certain  type  of  good  people  may  be 
trusted  to  surpass  all  others.  The  Colonel  and  his  Wife 
were  of  that  type.  But  the  Colonel's  wife  was  the  worst. 
She  manufactured  the  Station  scandal,  and — talked  to  her 
ayah.  Nothing  more  need  be  said.  The  Colonel's  Wife 
broke  up  the  Laplace's  home.  The  Colonel's  Wife 
stopped  the  Ferris-Haughtrey  engagement.  The 
Colonel's  Wife  induced  young  Buxton  to  keep  his  wife 
down  in  the  Plains  through  the  first  year  of  the  marriage. 
Wherefore  little  Mrs.  Buxton  died,  and  the  baby  with 
her.  These  things  will  be  remembered  against  the 
Colonel's  Wife  so  long  as  there  is  a  regiment  in  the  coun- 
try. 

But  to  come  back  to  the  Colonel  and  Platte.  They 
went  their  several  ways  from  the  dressing-room.  The 
Colonel  dined  with  two  Chaplains,  while  Platte  went  to  a 
bachelor-party,  and  whist  to  follow. 

Mark  how  things  happen!  If  Platte's  groom  had  put 
the  new  saddle-pad  on  the  mare,  the  butts  of  the  territs 
would  not  have  worked  through  the  worn  leather  and  the 
old  pad  into  the  mare's  withers,  when  she  was  coming 
home  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  would  not 
have  reared,  bolted,  fallen  into  a  ditch,  upset  the  cart, 
and  sent  Platte  flying  over  an  aloe-hedge  on  to  Mrs.  Lar- 
kyn's  well-kept  lawn,  and  this  tale  would  never  have  been 
written.  But  the  mare  did  all  these  things,  and  while 
Flatte  was  rolling  over  and  over  on  the  turf,  like  a  shot 
rabbit,  the  watch  and  guard  flew  from  his  waistcoat — as 
an  Infantry  Major's  sword  hops  out  of  the  scabbard  when 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  73 

they  are  firing  a  "feu-de-joie" — and  rolled  and  rolled  in 
the  moonlight,  till  it  stopped  under  a  window. 

Platte  stuffed  his  handkerchief  under  the  pad,  put  the 
cart  straight,  and  went  home. 

Mark  again  how  "Kismet"  works!  This  would  not 
arrive  once  in  a  hundred  years.  Towards  the  end  of  his 
dinner  with  the  two  Chaplains,  the  Colonel  let  out  his 
waistcoat  and  leaned  over  the  table  to  look  at  some  Mis- 
sion Reports.  The  bar  of  the  watch-guard  worked 
through  the  buttonhole,  and  the  watch — Platte's  watch — 
slid  quietly  on  to  the  carpet.  Where  the  bearer  found  it 
next  morning  and  kept  it. 

Then  the  Colonel  went  home  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom ; 
but  the  driver  of  the  carriage  was  drunk  and  lost  his  way. 
So  the  Colonel  returned  at  an  unseemly  hour  and  his  ex- 
cuses were  not  accepted.  If  the  Colonel's  Wife  had  been 
an  ordinary  vessel  of  wrath  appointed  for  destruction, 
she  would  have  known  that  when  a  man  stays  away  on 
purpose,  his  excuse  is  always  sound  and  original.  The 
very  baldness  of  the  Colonel's  explanation  proved  its 
truth. 

See  once  more  the  workings  of  "Kismet."  The 
Colonel's  watch  which  came  with  Platte  hurriedly  on  to 
Mrs.  Larkyn's  lawn,  chose  to  stop  just  under  Mrs.  Lar- 
kyn's  window,  where  she  saw  it  early  in  the  morning, 
recognized  it  and  picked  it  up.  She  had  heard  the  crash 
of  Platte's  cart  at  two  o'clock  that  morning,  and  his  voice 
calling  the  mare  names.  She  knew  Platte  and  liked  him. 
That  day  she  showed  him  the  watch  and  heard  his  story. 
He  put  his  head  on  one  side,  winked  and  said,  "How 
disgusting!  Shocking  old  man!  With  his  religious 
training,  too!  I  should  send  the  watch  to  the  Colonel's 
Wife  and  ask  for  explanations." 


74  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Mrs.  Larkyn  thought  for  a  minute  of  the  Laplaces — 
whom  she  had  known  when  Laplace  and  his  wife  be- 
lieved in  each  other — and  answered,  "I  will  send  it.  I 
think  it  will  do  her  good.  But,  remember,  we  must  never 
tell  her  the  truth." 

Platte  guessed  that  his  own  watch  was  in  the  Colonel's 
possession,  and  thought  that  the  return  of  the  lip-strapped 
Waterbury  with  a  soothing  note  from  Mrs.  Larkyn  would 
merely  create  a  small  trouble  for  a  few  minutes.  Mrs. 
Larkyn  knew  better.  She  knew  that  any  poison  dropped 
would  find  good  holding-ground  in  the  heart  of  the 
Colonel's  Wife. 

The  packet,  and  a  note  containing  a  few  remarks  on 
the  Colonel's  calling  hours,  were  sent  over  to  the 
Colonel's  Wife,  who  wept  in  her  own  room  and  took 
counsel  with  herself. 

If  there  was  one  woman  under  Heaven  whom  the 
Colonel's  Wife  hated  with  holy  fervor,  it  was  as  Mrs.  Lar- 
kyn. Mrs.  Larkyn  was  a  frivolous  lady,  and  called  the 
Colonel's  Wife  "old  cat."  The  Colonel's  Wife  said  that 
somebody  in  Revelations  was  remarkably  like  Mrs.  Lar- 
kyn. She  mentioned  other  Scripture  people  as  well. 
From  the  Old  Testament.  But  the  Colonel's  Wife  was 
the  only  person  who  cared  or  dared  to  say  anything 
against  Mrs.  Larkyn.  Every  one  else  accepted  her  as 
an  amusing,  honest  little  body.  Wherefore,  to  believe 
that  her  husband  had  been  shedding  watches  under  that 
"Thing's"  window  at  ungodly  hours  coupled  with  the 
fact  of  his  late  arrival  on  the  previous  night,  was  .... 

At  this  point  she  rose  up  and  sought  her  husband.  He 
denied  everything  except  the  ownership  of  the  watch. 
She  besought  him,  for  his  Soul's  sake,  to  speak  the  truth. 
He  denied  afresh,  with  two  bad  words.     Then  a  stony 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  75 

silence  held  the  Colonel's  Wife,  while  a  man  could  draw 
his  breath  five  times. 

The  speech  that  followed  is  no  afifair  of  mine  or  yours. 
It  was  made  up  of  wifely  and  womanly  jealousy;  kno^vl- 
edge  of  old  age  and  sunk  cheeks;  deep  mistrust  born  of 
the  text  that  says  even  little  babies'  hearts  are  as  bad  as 
they  make  them;  rancorous  hatred  of  Mrs.  Larkyn,  and 
the  tenets  of  the  creed  of  the  Colonel's  Wife's  upbringing. 

Over  and  above  all,  was  the  damning  lip-strapped 
Waterbury,  ticking  away  in  the  palm  of  her  shaking,  with- 
ered hand.  At  that  hour,  I  think,  the  Colonel's  Wife 
realized  a  little  of  the  restless  suspicion  she  had  injected 
into  old  Laplace's  mind,  a  little  of  poor  Miss  Haught- 
rey's  misery,  and  some  of  the  canker  that  ate  into  Bux- 
ton's heart  as  he  watched  his  wife  dying  before  his  eyes. 
The  Colonel  stammered  and  tried  to  explain.  Then  he 
remembered  that  his  watch  had  disappeared,  and  the  mys- 
tery grew  greater.  The  Colonel's  Wife  talked  and 
prayed  by  turns  till  she  was  tired,  and  went  away  to  de- 
vise means  for  chastening  the  stubborn  heart  of  her  hus- 
band. Which,  translated,  means,  in  our  slang,  "tail-twist- 
ing." 

Being  deeply  impressed  with  the  doctrine  of  Original 
Sin,  she  could  not  believe  in  the  face  of  appearances.  She 
knew  too  much,  and  jumped  to  the  wildest  conclusions. 

But  it  was  good  for  her.  It  spoilt  her  life,  as  she  had 
spoilt  the  life  of  the  Laplaces.  She  had  lost  her  faith 
in  the  Colonel,  and — here  the  creed-suspicion  came  in — 
he  might,  she  argued,  have  erred  many  times,  before  a 
merciful  Providence,  at  the  hands  of  so  unworthy  an  in- 
strument as  Mrs.  Larkyn,  had  established  his  guilt.  He 
was  a  bad,  wicked,  gray-haired  profligate.  This  may 
sound  too  sudden  a  revulsion  for  a  long-wedded  wife; 


^6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

bui  it  is  a  venerable  fact  that,  if  a  man  or  woman  makes 
a  practice  of,  and  takes  a  delight  in,  believing  and  speak- 
ing evil  of  people  indifferent  to  him  or  her,  he  or  she  will 
end  in  believing  evil  of  folk  very  near  and  dear.  You 
may  think,  also,  that  the  mere  incident  of  the  watch  was 
too  small  and  trivial  to  raise  this  misunderstanding.  It  is 
another  aged  fact  that,  in  life  as  well  as  racing,  all  the 
worst  accidents  happen  at  little  ditches  and  cut-down 
fences.  In  the  same  way,  you  sometimes  see  a  woman 
who  would  have  made  a  Joan  of  Arc  in  another  century 
and  climate,  threshing  herself  to  pieces  over  all  the  mean 
worry  of  housekeeping.     But  that  is  another  story. 

Her  belief  only  made  the  Colonel's  Wife  more  wretch- 
ed, because  it  insisted  so  strongly  on  the  villainy  of 
men.  Remembering  what  she  had  done,  it  was  pleasant 
to  watch  her  unhappiness,  and  the  penny-farthing  at- 
tempts she  made  to  hide  it  from  the  Station.  But  the 
Station  knew  and  laughed  heartlessly;  for  they  had  heard 
the  story  of  the  watch,  with  much  dramatic  gesture,  from 
Mrs.  Larkyn's  lips. 

Once  or  twice  Platte  said  to  Mrs.  Larkyn,  seeing  that 
the  Colonel  had  not  cleared  himself,  "This  thing  has 
gone  far  enough.  I  move  we  tell  the  Colonel's  Wife  how 
it  happened."  Mrs.  Larkyn  shut  her  lips  and  shook  her 
head,  and  vowed  that  the  Colonel's  Wife  must  bear  her 
punishment  as  best  she  could.  Now  Mrs.  Larkyn  was  a 
frivolous  woman,  in  whom  none  would  have  suspected 
deep  hate.  So  Platte  took  no  action,  and  came  to  believe 
gradually,  from  the  Colonel's  silence,  that  the  Colonel 
must  have  nm  oflf  the  line  somewhere  that  night,  and, 
therefore,  preferred  to  stand  sentence  on  the  lesser  count 
of  rambling  into  other  people's  compounds  out  of  calling- 
hours.     Platte  forgot  about  the  watch  business  after  a 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  77 

while,  and  moved  down-country  with  his  regiment.  Mrs. 
Larkyn  went  home  when  her  husband's  tour  of  Indian 
service  expired.     She  never  forgot. 

But  Platte  was  quite  right  when  he  said  that  the  joke 
had  gone  too  far.  The  mistrusts  and  the  tragedy  of  it — 
which  we  outsiders  cannot  see  and  do  not  believe  in — 
are  killing  the  Colonel's  Wife,  and  are  making  the 
Colonel  wretched.  If  either  of  them  read  this  story,  they 
can  depend  upon  its  being  a  fairly  true  account  of  the 
case,  and  can  kiss  and  make  friends. 

Shakespeare  alludes  to  the  pleasure  of  watching  an 
Engineer  being  shelled  by  his  own  Battery.  Now  this 
shows  that  poets  should  not  write  about  what  they  do 
not  understand.  Any  one  could  have  told  him  that  Sap- 
pers and  Gunners  are  perfectly  different  branches  of  the 
Service.  But,  if  you  correct  the  sentence,  and  substitute 
Gunner  for  Sapper,  the  moral  comes  just  the  same. 


78  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THE  OTHER  MAN. 

When  the  Earth  was  sick  and  the  Skies  were  gray 

And  the  woods  were  rotted  with  rain, 
The  Dead  Man  rode  through  the  autumn  day 

To  visit  his  love  again. 

—Old  Ballad. 

Far  back  in  the  "seventies,"  before  they  had  built  any 
Public-Offices  at  Simla,  and  the  broad  road  round  Jakko 
lived  in  a  pigeon-hole  in  the  P.  W.  D.  hovels,  her  parents 
made  Miss  Gaurey  marry  Colonel  Schreiderling.  He 
could  not  have  been  much  more  than  thirty-five  years  her 
senior;  and,  as  he  lived  on  two  hundred  rupees  a  month 
and  had  money  of  his  own,  he  was  well  ofif.  He  belonged 
to  good  people,  and  suffered  in  the  cold  weather  from 
lung-complaints.  In  the  hot  weather  he  dangled  on  the 
brink  of  heat-apoplexy;  but  it  never  quite  killed  him. 

Understand,  I  do  not  blame  Schreiderling.  He  was 
a  good  husband  according  to  his  lights,  and  his  temper 
only  failed  him  when  he  was  being  nursed.  Which  was 
some  seventeen  days  in  each  month.  He  was  almost 
generous  to  his  wife,  about  money-matters,  and  that, 
for  him,  was  a  concession.  Still  Mrs.  Schreiderling  was 
not  happy.  They  married  her  when  she  was  this  side  of 
twenty  and  had  given  all  her  poor  little  heart  to  another 
man.  I  have  forgotten  his  name,  but  we  will  call  him 
the  Other  Man.  He  had  no  money  and  no  prospects. 
He  was  not  even  good-looking;  and  I  think  he  was  in  the 
Commissariat  or  Transport.  But,  in  spite  of  all  these 
things,  she  loved  him  very  badly;  and  there  was  some 
sort  of  an  engagement  between  the  two  when  Schreider- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  79 

ling  appeared  and  told  Mrs.  Gaurey  that  he  wished  to 
marry  her  daughter.  Then  the  other  engagement  was 
broken  off — washed  away  by  Mrs.  Gaurey's  tears,  for  that 
lady  governed  her  house  by  weeping  over  disobedience 
to  her  authority  and  the  lack  of  reverence  she  received  in 
her  old  age.  The  daughter  did  not  take  after  her  mother. 
She  never  cried.     Not  even  at  the  wedding. 

The  Other  Man  bore  his  loss  quietly,  and  was  trans- 
ferred to  as  bad  a  station  as  he  could  lind.  Perhaps  the 
climate  consoled  him.  He  suffered  from  intermittent 
fever,  and  that  may  have  distracted  him  from  his  other 
trouble.  He  was  weak  about  the  heart  also.  Both  ways. 
One  of  the  valves  was  affected,  and  the  fever  made  it 
worse.     This  showed  itself  later  on. 

Then  many  months  passed,  and  Mrs.  Schreiderling 
took  to  being  ill.  She  did  not  pine  away  like  people  in 
story-books,  but  she  seemed  to  pick  up  every  form  of 
illness  that  went  about  a  Station,  from  simple  fever  up- 
wards. She  was  never  more  than  ordinarily  pretty  at 
the  best  of  times;  and  the  illnesses  made  her  ugly. 
Schreiderling  said  so.  He  prided  himself  on  speaking 
his  mind. 

When  she  ceased  being  pretty,  he  left  her  to  her  own 
devices,  and  went  back  to  the  lairs  of  his  bachelordom. 
She  used  to  trot  up  and  down  Simla  Mall  in  a  forlorn 
sort  of  way,  with  a  gray  Terai  hat  well  on  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  a  shocking  bad  saddle  under  her.  Schrei- 
derling's  generosity  stopped  at  the  horse.  He  said  that 
any  saddle  would  do  for  a  woman  as  nervous  as  Mrs. 
Schreiderling.  She  never  was  asked  to  dance,  because 
she  did  not  dance  well;  and  she  was  so  dull  and  uninter- 
esting, that  her  box  very  seldom  had  any  cards  in  it. 
Schreiderling  said  that  if  he  had  known  she  was  going 


8(3  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

to  be  such  a  scarecrow  after  her  marriage,  he  would  never 
have  married  her.  He  ahvays  prided  himself  on  speak- 
ing his  mind,  did  Schreiderling. 

He  left  her  at  Simla  one  August,  and  went  down  to 
his  regiment.  Then  she  revived  a  little,  but  she  never 
recovered  her  looks.  I  found  out  at  the  Club  that  the 
Other  Man  was  coming  up  sick — very  sick —  on  an  ofif 
chance  of  recovery.  The  fever  and  the  heart-valves  had 
nearly  killed  him.  She  knew  that  too,  and  she  knew — 
what  I  had  no  interest  in  knowing — when  'he  was  coming 
up.  I  suppose  he  wrote  to  tell  her.  They  had  not  seen 
each  other  since  a  month  before  the  wedding.  And  here 
comes  the  unpleasant  part  of  the  story. 

A  late  call  kept  me  down  at  the  Dovedell  Hotel  till 
dusk  one  evening.  Mrs.  Schreiderling  had  been  flitting 
up  and  down  the  Mall  all  the  afternoon  in  the  rain.  Com- 
ing up  along  the  Cart-road,  a  tonga  passed  me,  and  my 
pony,  tired  with  standing  so  long,  set  off  at  a  canter. 
Just  by  the  road  down  to  the  Tonga  Office  Mrs.  Schreid- 
erling, dripping  from  head  to  foot,  was  waiting  for  the 
tonga.  I  turned  uphill  as  the  tonga  was  no  afifair  of 
mine;  and  just  then  she  began  to  shriek.  I  went  back 
at  once  and  saw,  under  the  Tonga  Office  lamps,  Mrs. 
Schreiderling  kneeling  in  the  wet  road  by  the  back  seat 
of  the  newly-arrived  tonga,  screaming  hideously.  Then 
she  fell  face  down  in  the  dirt  as  I  came  up. 

Sitting  in  the  back  seat,  very  square  and  firm,  with  one 
hand  on  the  awning-stanchion  and  the  wet  pouring  ofY  his 
hat  and  moustache,  was  the  Other  Man — dead.  The  six- 
ty-mile uphill  jolt  had  been  too  much  for  his  valve,  I 
suppose.  The  tonga-driver  said,  "This  Sahib  died  two 
stages  out  of  Solon.  Therefore,  I  tied  him  with  a  rope, 
lest   he  should    fall   out   by    the  way,   and  so   came   to 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  8l 

Simla.     Will  the  Sahib  give  me  bukshish?     It,"  pointing 
to  the  Other  Man,  "should  have  given  one  rupee." 

The  Other  Man  sat  with  a  grin  on  his  face,  as  if  he 
enjoyed  the  joke  of  his  arrival;  and  Mrs.  Schreiderling, 
in  the  mud,  began  to  groan.  There  was  no  one  except 
us  four  in  the  office  and  it  was  raining  heavily.  The 
first  thing  was  to  take  Mrs.  Schreiderlinp^  home,  and  the 
second  was  to  prevent  her  name  from  being  mixed  up 
with  the  affair.  The  tonga-driver  received  five  rupees 
to  find  a  bazar  'rickshaw  for  Mrs.  Schreiderling.  He  was 
to  tell  the  Tonga  Babu  afterwards  of  the  Other  Man,  and 
the  Babu  was  to  make  such  arrangements  as  seemed 
best. 

Mrs.  Schreiderling  was  carried  into  the  shed  out  of  the 
rain,  and  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  we  two  waited  for 
the  'rickshaw.  The  Other  Man  was  left  exactly  as  he 
had  arrived.  Mrs.  Schreiderling  would  do  everything 
but  cry,  which  might  have  helped  her.  She  tried  to 
scream  as  soon  as  her  senses  came  back,  and  then  she 
began  praying  for  the  Other  Man's  soul.  Had  she  not 
been  as  honest  as  the  day,  she  would  have  prayed  for  her 
own  soul  too.  I  waited  to  hear  her  do  this,  but  she  did 
not.  Then  I  tried  to  get  some  of  the  m.ud  off  her  habit. 
Lastly,  the  'rickshaw  came,  and  I  got  her  away — partly 
by  force.  It  was  a  terrible  business  from  beginning  to 
end,  but  most  of  all  when  the  'rickshaw  had  to  squeeze 
between  the  wall  and  the  tonga,  and  she  saw  by  the  lamp- 
light that  thin,  yellow  hand  grasping  the  awning-stan- 
chion. 

She  was  taken  home  just  as  every  one  was  going  to  a 
dance  at  Viceregal  Lodge — "Peterhoff"  it  was  then — and 
the  doctor  found  out  that  she  had  fallen  from  her  horse, 
that  I  had  picked  her  up  at  the  back  of  Jakko,  and  really 

6 


82  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

deserved  great  credit  for  the  prompt  manner  in  which  I 
had  secured  medical  aid.  She  did  not  die — men  of 
Schreiderhng's  stamp  marry  women  who  don't  die  easily. 
They  live  and  grow  ugly. 

She  never  told  of  her  one  meeting,  since  her  marriage, 
with  the  Other  Man;  and,  when  the  chill  and  cough  fol- 
lowing the  exposure  of  that  evening,  allowed  her  abroad, 
she  never  by  word  or  sign  alluded  to  having  met  me  by 
the  Tonga  Office.     Perhaps  she  never  knew. 

She  used  to  trot  up  and  down  the  Mall,  on  that  shock- 
ing bad  saddle,  looking  as  if  she  expected  to  meet  some 
one  round  the  corner  every  minute.  Two  years  after- 
wards she  went  Home,  and  died — at  Bournemouth,  I 
think. 

Schreiderling,  when  he  grew  maudlin  at  Mess,  used  to 
talk  about  "my  poor  dear  wife."  He  always  set  great 
store  on  speaking  his  mind,  did  Schreiderling. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  83 


CONSEQUENCES. 

Rosicrucian  subtleties 

In  the  Orient  had  rise; 

Ye  may  find  their  teachers  still 

Under  Jacatala's  Hill. 

Seek  ye  Bombast  Paracelsus, 

Read  what  Flood  the  Seeker  tells  us 

Of  the  Dominant  that  runs 

Through  the  Cycles  of  the  Suns — 

Read  my  story  last,  and  see 

Luna  at  her  apogee. 

There  are  yearly  appointments,  and  two-yearly  ap- 
pointments, and  five-yearly  appointments  at  Simla,  and 
there  are,  or  used  to  be,  permanent  appointments,  where- 
on you  stayed  up  for  the  term  of  your  natural  life  and  se- 
cured red  cheeks  and  a  nice  income.  Of  course,  you 
could  descend  in  the  cold  weather;  for  Simla  is  rather 
dull  then. 

Tarrion  came  from  goodness  knows  where — all  away 
and  away  in  some  forsaken  part  of  Central  India,  where 
they  call  Pachmari  a  Sanitarium,  and  drive  behind  trot- 
ting-bullocks,  I  believe.  He  belonged  to  a  regiment; 
but  what  he  really  wanted  to  do  was  to  escape  from  his 
regiment  and  live  in  Simla  for  ever  and  ever.  He  had 
no  preference  for  anything  in  particular,  beyond  a  good 
horse  and  a  nice  partner.  He  thought  he  could  do 
everything  well ;  which  is  a  beautiful  belief  when  you  hold 
it  with  all  your  heart.  He  was  clever  in  many  ways,  and 
good  to  look  at,  and  always  made  people  round  him 
comfortable — even  in  Central  India. 


84  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

So  he  went  up  to  Simla,  and,  because  he  was  clever 
and  amusing,  he  gravitated  naturally  to  Airs.  Hauksbce 
who  could  forgive  everything  but  stupidity  Once  he 
did  her  great  service  by  changing  the  date  on  an  invita- 
tion-card for  a  big  dance  which  Mrs.  Hauksbee  wished 
to  attend,  but  couldn't  because  she  had  quarreled  with 
the  A.-D.-C,  who  took  care,  being  a  mean  man,  to  invite 
her  to  a  small  dance  on  the  6th  instead  of  the  big  Ball  of 
the  26th.  It  was  a  very  clever  piece  of  forgery;  and 
when  Mrs.  Hauksbee  showed  the  A.-D.-C.  her  invitation- 
card,  and  chaffed  him  mildly  for  not  better  managing  his 
vendettas,  he  really  thought  that  he  had  made  a  mistake; 
and — which  was  wise — realized  that  it  was  no  use  to  fight 
with  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  She  was  grateful  to  Tarrion  and 
asked  what  she  could  do  for  him.  He  said  simply,  "I'm 
a  Freelance  up  here  on  leave,  on  the  lookout  for  what 
I  can  loot.  I  haven't  a  square  inch  of  interest  in  all 
Simla.  My  name  isn't  known  to  any  man  with  an  ap- 
pointment in  his  gift,  and  I  want  an  appointment — a 
good,  sound  one.  I  believe  you  can  do  anything  you 
turn  yourself  to.  Will  you  help  me?"  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
thought  for  a  minute,  and  passed  the  lash  of  her  riding- 
whip  through  her  lips,  as  was  her  custom  when  thinking. 
Then  her  eyes  sparkled  and  she  said,  "I  will;"  and  she 
shook  hands  on  it.  Tarrion,  having  perfect  confidence  in 
this  great  woman,  took  no  further  thought  of  the  busi- 
ness at  all.  Except  to  wonder  what  sort  of  an  appoint- 
ment he  would  win. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  began  calculating  the  prices  of  all  the 
Heads  of  Departments  and  Members  of  Council  she 
knew,  and  the  more  she  thought  the  more  she  laughed, 
because  her  heart  was  in  the  game  and  it  amused  her. 
Then  she  took  a  Civil  List  and  ran  over  a  few  of  the 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  85 

appointments.  There  are  some  beautiful  appointments 
in  the  Civil  List.  Eventually,  she  decided  that,  though 
Tarrion  was  too  good  for  the  Political  Department,  she 
had  better  begin  by  trying  to  place  him  there.  Her  own 
plans  to  this  end  do  not  matter  in  the  least,  for  Luck 
or  Fate  played  into  her  hands  and  she  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  watch  the  course  of  events  and  take  the  credit 
of  them. 

All  Viceroys,  when  they  first  come  out,  pass  through 
the  Diplomatic  Secrecy  craze.  It  wears  ofif  in  time ;  but 
they  all  catch  it  in  the  beginning,  because  they  are  new 
to  the  country.  The  particular  Viceroy  who  was  suf- 
fering from  the  complaint  just  then — this  was  a  long 
time  ago,  before  Lord  Dufferin  ever  came  from  Canada, 
or  Lord  Ripon  from  the  bosom  of  the  English  Church — 
had  it  very  badly;  and  the  result  was  that  men  who  were 
new  to  keeping  official  secrets  went  about  looking  un- 
happy; and  the  Viceroy  plumed  himself  on  the  way  in 
which  he  had  instilled  notions  of  reticence  into  his  Stafif. 

Now,  the  Supreme  Government  have  a  careless  cus- 
tom of  committing  what  they  do  to  printed  papers.  These 
papers  deal  with  all  sorts  of  things — from  the  payment  of 
Rs.200  to  a  "secret  service"  native,  up  to  rebukes  admin- 
istered to  Vakils  and  Motamids  of  Native  States,  and 
rather  brusque  letters  to  Native  Princes,  telling  them  to 
put  their  houses  in  order,  to  refrain  from  kidnapping 
women,  or  filling  offenders  with  pounded  red  pepper, 
and  eccentricities  of  that  kind.  Of  course,  these  things 
could  never  be  made  pubHc,  because  Native  Princes  never 
err  officially,  and  their  States  are  officially  as  well  ad- 
ministered as  Our  territories.  Also,  the  private  allow- 
ances to  various  queer  people  are  not  exactly  matters  to 
put  into  newspapers,  though  they  give  quaint  reading 


86  PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS. 

sometimes.  When  the  Supreme  Government  is  at  Simla, 
these  papers  are  prepared  there,  and  go  round  to  the 
people  who  ought  to  see  them  in  office-boxes  or  by  post. 
The  principle  of  secrecy  was  to  that  Viceroy  quite  as  im- 
portant as  the  practice,  and  he  held  that  a  benevolent 
despotism  like  Ours  should  never  allow  even  little  things, 
such  as  appointments  of  subordinate  clerks,  to  leak  out 
till  the  proper  time.  He  was  always  remarkable  for  his 
principles. 

There  was  a  very  important  batch  of  papers  in  pre- 
paration at  that  time.  It  had  to  travel  from  one  end 
of  Simla  to  the  other  by  hand.  It  was  not  put  into  an 
official  envelope,  but  a  large,  square,  pale  pink  one;  the 
matter  being  in  MS.  on  soft  crinkly  paper.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  "The  Head  Clerk,  etc.,  etc."  Now,  between 
"The  Head  Clerk,  etc.,  etc."  and  "Mrs.  Hauksbee"  and  a 
flourish,  is  no  very  great  difference,  if  the  address  be  writ- 
ten in  a  very  bad  hand,  as  this  was.  The  orderly  who 
took  the  envelope  was  not  more  of  an  idiot  than  most 
orderlies.  He  merely  forgot  where  this  most  unofficial 
cover  was  to  be  delivered,  and  so  asked  the  first  Eng- 
lishman he  met,  who  happened  to  be  a  man  riding  down 
to  Annandale  in  a  great  hurr}'.  The  Englishman  hardly 
looked  at  it,  said,  "Mrs.  Hauksbee,"  and  went  on.  So 
did  the  orderly,  because  that  letter  was  the  last  in  stock 
and  he  wanted  to  get  his  work  over.  There  was  no  book 
to  sign;  he  thrust  the  letter  into  Mrs.  Hauksbee's  bearer's 
hands  and  went  ofif  to  smoke  with  a  friend.  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee was  expecting  some  cut-out  pattern  things  in  flimsy 
paper  from  a  friend.  As  soon  as  she  got  the  big  square 
packet,  therefore,  she  said,  "Oh,  the  dear  creature!"  and 
tore  it  open  with  a  paper-knife,  and  all  the  MS.  enclosures 
tumbled  out  on  the  floor. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  8/ 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  began  reading.  I  have  said  the  batch 
was  rather  important.  That  is  quite  enough  for  you 
to  know.  It  referred  to  some  correspondence,  two  mea- 
sures, a  peremptory  order  to  a  native  chief  and  two  dozen 
other  things.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  gasped  as  she  read,  for  the 
first  gUmpse  of  the  naked  machinery  of  the  Great  Indian 
Government,  stripped  of  its  casings,  and  lacquer,  and 
paint,  and  guard-rails,  impresses  even  the  most  stupid 
man.  And  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  a  clever  woman.  She 
was  a  little  afraid  at  first,  and  felt  as  if  she  had  taken  hold 
of  a  lightning-flash  by  the  tail,  and  did  not  quite  know 
what  to  do  with  it.  There  were  remarks  and  initials  at 
the  side  of  the  papers;  and  some  of  the  remarks  were 
rather  more  severe  than  the  papers.  The  initials  be- 
longed to  men  who  are  all  dead  or  gone  now;  but  they 
were  great  in  their  day.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  read  on  and 
thought  calmly  as  she  read.  Then  the  value  of  her  trove 
struck  her,  and  she  cast  about  for  the  best  method  of 
using  it.  Then  Tarrion  dropped  in,  and  they  read  through 
all  the  papers  together,  and  Tarrion,  not  knowing  how 
she  had  come  by  them,  vowed  that  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was 
the  greatest  woman  on  earth.  Which  I  believe  was  true 
or  nearly  so. 

"The  honest  course  is  always  the  best,"  said  Tarrion 
after  an  hour  and  a  half  of  study  and  conversation.  "All 
things  considered,  the  Intelligence  Branch  is  about  my 
form.  Either  that  or  the  Foreign  Office.  I  go  to  lay 
siege  to  the  High  Gods  in  their  Temples." 

He  did  not  seek  a  little  man,  or  a  little  big  man,  or  a 
weak  Head  of  a  strong  Department,  but  he  called  on  the 
biggest  and  strongest  man  that  the  Government  owned, 
and  explained  that  he  wanted  an  appointment  at  Simla 
on  a  good  salary.       The  compound  insolence   of  this 


88  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

amused  the  Strong  Man,  and,  as  he  had  nothing  to  do  for 
the  moment,  he  listened  to  the  proposals  of  the  Auda- 
cious Tarrion.  "You  have,  I  presume,  some  special 
qualifications,  besides  the  gift  of  self-assertion,  for  the 
claims  you  put  forward?"  said  the  Strong  Man,  "That, 
Sir,"  said  Tarrion,  "is  for  you  to  judge."  Then  he  be- 
gan, for  he  had  a  good  memory,  quoting  a  few  of  the 
more  important  notes  in  the  papers — slowly  and  one  by 
one  as  a  man  drops  chlorodyne  into  a  glass.  When  he 
had  reached  the  peremptory  order — and  it  was  a  very  per- 
emptory order — the  Strong  Man  was  troubled.  Tarrion 
wound  up — "And  I  fancy  that  special  knowledge  of  tTiis 
kind  is  at  least  as  valuable  for,  let  us  say,  a  berth  in  the 
Foreign  Oflfice,  as  the  fact  of  being  a  nephew  of  a  distin- 
guished ofHcer's  wife."  That  hit  the  Strong  Man  hard, 
for  the  last  appointment  to  the  Foreign  Office  had  been 
by  black  favor,  and  he  knew  it. 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,"  said  the  Strong  Man. 

"Many  thanks,"  said  Tarrion.  Then  he  left,  and  the 
Strong  Man  departed  to  see  how  the  appointment  was  to 
be  blocked. 

Followed  a  pause  of  eleven  days;  with  thunders  and 
lightnings  and  much  telegraphing.  The  appointment 
was  not  a  very  important  one,  carrying  only  -between 
Rs.500  and  Rs.700  a  month;  but,  as  the  Viceroy  said,  it 
was  the  principle  of  diplomatic  secrecy  that  had  to  be 
maintained,  and  it  was  more  than  likely  that  a  boy  so  well 
supplied  with  special  information  would  be  worth  trans- 
lating. So  they  translated  Tarrion.  They  must  have 
suspected  him,  tliough  he  protested  that  his  information 
was  due  to  singular  talents  of  his  own.  Now,  much  of 
this  story,  including  the  after-history  of  the  missing  en- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  8y 

velope,  you  must  fill  in  for  yourself,  because  there  are 
reasons  why  it  cannot  be  written.  If  you  do  not  know 
about  things  Up  Above,  you  won't  understand  how  to 
fill  in,  and  you  will  say  it  is  impossible. 

What  the  Viceroy  said  when  Tarrion  was  introduced 
to  him  was — "This  is  the  boy  who  'rushed'  the  Govern- 
ment of  India,  is  it?  Recollect,  Sir,  that  is  not  done 
twice."     So  he  must  have  known  something. 

What  Tarrion  said  when  he  saw  his  appointment  gaz- 
etted was — "If  Mrs.  Hauksbee  were  twenty  years  young- 
er, and  I  her  husband,  I  should  be  Viceroy  of  India  in 
fifteen  years." 

What  Mrs.  Hauksbee  said,  when  Tarrion  thanked  her, 
almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  was  first — "I  told  you  so!" 
and  next,  to  herself — "What  fools  men  are!" 


90  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


A  GERM-DESTROYER. 

Pleasant  it  is  for  the  Little  Tin  Gods 

When  great  Jove  nods; 
But  Little  Tin  Gods  make  their  little  mistakes 
In  missing  the  hour  when  great  Jove  wakes. 

As  a  general  rule,  it  is  inexpedient  to  meddle  with 
questions  of  State  in  a  land  where  men  are  highly  paid 
to  work  them  out  for  you.  This  tale  is  a  justifiable  ex- 
ception. 

Once  in  every  five  years,  as  you  know,  we  indent  for 
a  new  Viceroy;  and  each  Viceroy  imports,  with  the  rest 
of  his  baggage,  a  Private  Secretary,  who  may  or  may  not 
be  the  real  Viceroy,  just  as  Fate  ordains.  Fate  looks 
after  the  Indian  Empire  because  it  is  so  big  and  so  help- 
less. 

There  was  a  Viceroy  once,  who  brought  out  with  him 
a  turbulent  Private  Secretary — a  hard  man  with  a  soft 
manner  and  a  morbid  passion  for  work.  This  Secretary 
was  called  Wonder — John  Fennil  Wonder.  The  Vice- 
roy possessed  no  name — nothing  but  a  string  of  counties 
and  two-thirds  of  the  alphabet  after  them.  He  said,  in 
confidence,  that  he  was  the  electro-plated  figure-head 
of  a  golden  administration,  and  he  watched  in  a  dreamy, 
amused  way  Wonder's  attempts  to  draw  mattters  which 
were  entirely  outside  his  province  into  his  own  hands. 
"When  we  are  all  cherubims  together,"  said  Flis  Excel- 
lency once,  "my  dear,  good  friend  Wonder  will  head  the 
conspiracy  for  plucking  out  Gabriel's  tail-feathers  or 
stealing  Peter's  keys.     Then  I  shall  report  him." 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  9I 

But,  though  the  Viceroy  did  nothing  to  check  Won- 
der's officiousness,  other  people  said  unpleasant  things. 
May  be  the  Members  of  Council  began  it;  but,  finally 
all  Simla  agreed  that  there  was  "too  much  Wonder,  and 
loo  little  Viceroy"  in  that  rule.  Wonder  was  always 
cjuoting  "His  Excellency."  It  was  "His  Excellency 
ihis,"  "His  Excellency  that,"  "In  the  opinion  of  His  Ex- 
cellency," and  so  on.  The  V  iceroy  smiled,  but  he  did  not 
tieed.  He  said  that,  so  long  as  his  old  men  squabbled 
with  his  "dear,  good  Wonder,"  they  might  be  induced  to 
leave  the  Immemorial  East  in  peace. 

"No  wise  man  has  a  policy,"  said  the  Viceroy.  "A 
Policy  is  the  blackmail  levied  on  the  Fool  by  the  Un- 
foreseen. I  am  not  the  former,  and  I  do  not  believe 
in  the  latter." 

I  do  not  quite  see  what  this  means,  unless  it  refers  to 
an  Insurance  Policy.  Perhaps  it  was  the  Viceroy's  way 
of  saying,  "Lie  low." 

That  season,  came  up  to  Simla  one  of  these  crazy  peo- 
ple with  only  a  single  idea.  These  are  the  men  who 
make  things  move;  but  they  are  not  nice  to  talk  to. 
This  man's  name  was  Mellish,  and  he  had  lived  for 
fifteen  years  on  land  of  his  own,  in  Lower  Bengal,  study- 
ing cholera.  He  held  that  cholera  was  a  germ  that 
propagated  itself  as  it  flew  through  a  muggy  atmosphere ; 
and  stuck  in  the  branches  of  trees  like  a  wool-flake.  The 
germ  could  be  rendered  sterile,  he  said,  by  "Mellish's 
Own  Invincible  Fumigatory" — a  heavy  violet-black  pow- 
der— "the  result  of  fifteen  years'  scientific  investigation. 
Sir!" 

Inventors  seem  very  much  alike  as  a  caste.  They 
talk  loudly,  especially  about  "conspiracies  of  monopo- 
lists;" they  beat  upon  the  table  with  their  fists;  and  they 


92  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

secrete  fragments  of  their  inventions  about  their  per- 
sons. 

Mellish  said  that  there  was  a  Medical  "Ring"  at  Simla, 
headed  by  the  Surgeon-General,  who  was  in  league,  ap- 
parently, with  all  the  Hospital  Assistants  in  the  Empire. 
I  forget  exactly  how  he  proved  it,  but  it  had  something 
to  do  with  "skulking  up  to  the  Hills;"  and  what  Mel- 
lish wanted  was  the  independent  evidence  of  the  Viceroy 
— "Steward  of  our  Most  Gracious  Majesty  the  Queen, 
Sir."  So  Mellish  went  up  to  Simla,  with  eighty-four 
pounds  of  Fumigatory  in  his  trunk,  to  speak  to  the 
Viceroy  and  to  show  him  the  merits  of  the  invention. 

But  it  is  easier  to  see  a  Viceroy  than  to  talk  to  him, 
unless  you  chance  to  be  as  important  as  Mellishe  of 
Madras.  He  was  a  six-thousand-rupee  man,  so  great 
that  his  daughters  never  "married."  They  "contracted 
alliances."  He  himself  was  not  paid.  He  "received 
emoluments,"  and  his  journeys  about  the  country  were 
"tours  of  observation."  His  business  was  to  stir  up  the 
people  in  Madras  with  a  long  pole — as  you  stir  up  tench 
in  a  pond — and  the  people  had  to  come  up  out  of  their 
comfortable  old  ways  and  gasp — "This  is  Enlighten- 
ment and  Progress.  Isn't  it  fine!"  Then  they  gave  Mel- 
lishe statues  and  jasmine  garlands,  in  the  hope  of  getting 
rid  of  him. 

Mellishe  came  up  to  Simla  "to  confer  with  the  Vice- 
roy." That  was  one  of  his  perquisites.  The  Viceroy 
knew  nothing  of  Mellishe  except  that  he  was  "one  of 
those  middle  class  deities  who  seem  necessary  to  the 
spiritual  comfort  of  this  Paradise  of  the  Middle-classes," 
and  that,  in  all  probability,  he  had  "suggested,  designed, 
founded,  and  endowed  all  the  public  institutions  in 
Madras."      Which  proves  that  His  Excellency,  though 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  93 

dreamy,  had  experience  of  the  ways  of  six-thousand- 
rupee  men. 

Mellishe's  name  was  E.  MelHshe,  and  MelHsh's  was 
E.  S.  MelHsh,  and  they  were  both  staying  at  the  same 
hotel,  and  the  Fate  that  looks  after  the  Indian  Empire 
ordained  that  Wonder  should  blunder  and  drop  the  final 
"e;"  that  the  Chaprassi  should  help  him,  and  that  the 
note  which  ran — 

Dear  Mr.  Mellish: — Can  you  set  aside  your  other  engage- 
ments, and  lunch  with  us  at  two  to-morrow?  His  Excellency 
has  an  hour  at  your  disposal  then, 

should  be  given  to  Mellish  with  the  Fumigatory.  He 
nearly  wept  with  pride  and  delight,  and  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour  cantered  to  Peterhoff,  a  big  paper-bag  full 
of  the  Fumigatory  in  his  coat-tail  pockets.  He  had  his 
chance,  and  he  meant  to  make  the  most  of  it.  Mellishe 
of  Madras  had  been  so  portentously  solemn  about  his 
"conference,"  that  Wonder  had  arranged  for  a  private 
tiffin, — no  A.-D.-C.'s,  no  Wonder,  no  one  but  the  Vice- 
roy, who  said  plaintively  that  he  feared  being  left  alone 
with  unmuzzled  autocrats  like  the  great  Mellishe  of 
Madras. 

But  his  guest  did  not  bore  the  Viceroy.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  amused  him.  Mellish  was  nervously  anxious 
to  go  straight  to  his  Fumigatory,  and  talked  at  random 
until  tifjfin  was  over  and  His  Excellency  asked  him  to 
smoke.  The  Viceroy  was  pleased  with  Mellish  because 
he  did  not  talk  "shop." 

As  soon  as  the  cheroots  were  lit,  Mellish  spoke  like  a 
man;  begining  wath  his  cholera-theory,  reviewing  his 
fifteen  years'  "scientific  labors,"  the  machinations  of  the 
"Simla  Ring,"  and  the  excellence  of  his  Fumigatory, 
while  the  Viceroy  watched  him  between  half-shut  eyes 


94  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

and  thought — "Evidently  this  is  the  wrong  tiger;  but 
it  is  an  original  animal."  Mellish's  hair  was  standing  on 
end  with  excitement,  and  he  stammered.  He  began 
groping  in  his  coat-tails  and,  before  the  Viceroy  knew 
what  was  about  to  happen,  he  had  tipped  a  bagful  of  his 
powder  into  the  big  silver  ash-tray. 

"J-j-judge  for  yourself,  Sir,"  said  Mellish.  "Y'  Ex- 
cellency shall  judge  for  yourself!  Absolutely  infallible 
on  my  honor." 

Pie  plunged  the  lighted  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  pow- 
der, which  began  to  smoke  like  a  volcano,  and  send  up 
fat,  greasy  wreaths  of  copper-colored  smoke.  In  five 
seconds  the  room  was  filled  with  a  most  pungent  and 
sickening  stench — a  reek  that  took  fierce  hold  of  the 
trap  of  your  windpipe  and  shut  it.  The  powder  hissed 
and  fizzed,  and  sent  out  blue  and  green  sparks,  and  the 
smoke  rose  till  you  could  neither  see,  nor  breathe,  nor 
gasp.    Mellish,  however,  was  used  to  it. 

"Nitrate  of  strontia,"  he  shouted;  "baryta,  bone-meal 
etcetera!  Thousand  cubic  feet  smoke  per  cubic  inch. 
Not  a  germ  could  live — not  a  germ,  Y'  Excellency!" 

But  His  Excellency  had  fled,  and  was  coughing  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  while  all  Peterhofif  hummed  like 
a  hive.  Red  Lancers  came  in,  and  the  head  Chaprassi 
who  speaks  English,  came  in,  and  mace-bearers  came  in, 
and  ladies  ran  down  stairs  screaming,  "Fire;"  for  the 
smoke  was  drifting  through  the  house  and  oozing  out  of 
the  windows,  and  bellying  along  the  verandahs,  and 
wreathing  and  writhing  across  the  gardens.  No  one 
could  enter  the  room  where  Mellish  was  lecturing  on  his 
Fumigatory,  till  that  unspeakable  powder  had  burned 
itself  out. 

Then  an  Aide-de-Camp,  who  desired  the  V.  C,  rushed 
through  the  rolling  clouds  and  hauled  Mellish  into  the 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  95 

hall.  The  Viceroy  was  prostrate  with  laughter,  and 
could  only  waggle  his  hands  feebly  at  Mellish,  who  was 
shaking  a  fresh  bagful  of  powder  at  him. 

"Glorious!  Glorious!"  sobbed  His  Excellency.  "Not 
a  germ,  as  you  justly  observe,  could  exist!  I  can  swear 
it.    A  masrnificent  success!" 

Then  he  laughed  till  the  tears  came,  and  Wonder,  who 
had  caught  the  real  Mellishe  snorting  on  the  Mall,  en- 
tered and  was  deeply  shocked  at  the  scene.  But  the  Vice- 
roy was  delighted,  because  he  saw  that  Wonder  would 
presently  depart.  Mellish  with  the  Fumigatory  was  also 
pleased,  for  he  felt  that  he  had  simashed  the  Simla  Medi- 
cal "Ring." 


Few  men  could  tell  a  story  like  His  Excellency  when 
he  took  the  trouble,  and  his  account  of  "my  dear,  good 
Wonder's  friend  with  the  powder"  went  the  round  of 
Simla,  and  flippant  folk  made  Wonder  unhappy  by  their 
remarks. 

But  His  Excellency  told  the  tale  once  too  often — for 
Wonder.  As  he  meant  to  do.  It  was  at  a  Seepee  picnic. 
Wonder  was  sitting  just  behind  the  Viceroy. 

"And  I  really  thought  for  a  moment,"  wound  up  His 
Excellency,  "that  my  dear  good  Wonder  had  hired  an 
assassin  to  clear  his  way  to  the  throne!" 

Every  one  laughed;  but  there  was  a  delicate  sub- 
tinkle  in  the  Viceroy's  tone  which  Wonder  understood. 
He  found  that  his  health  was  giving  way;  and  the  Vice- 
roy allowed  him  to  go,  and  presented  him  with  a  flam- 
ing "character"  for  use  at  Home  among  big  people. 

"My  fault  entirely,"  said  His  Excellency,  in  after  sea- 
sons, with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "My  inconsistency  must 
always  have  been  distasteful  to  such  a  masterly  man." 


9C»  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


KIDNAPPED. 

There  is' a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  talten  any  way  you  please,  is  bad. 
And  strands  them  in  forsaken  guts  and  creeks 
No  decent  soul  would  think  of  visiting. 
You  cannot  stop  the  tide;  but,  now  and  then. 
You  may  arrest  some  rash  adventurer 
Who — h'm — will  hardly  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

— Vibart's  Moralities. 

We  are  a  high-caste  and  enlightened  race,  and  infant- 
marriage  is  very  shocking  and  the  consequences  are 
sometimes  pecuHar;  but,  nevertheless,  the  Hindu  notion 
— which  is  the  Continental  notion,  which  is  the  aborig- 
inal notion — of  arranging  marriages  irrespective  of  the 
personal  inclinations  of  the  married,  is  sound.  Think 
for  a  minute,  and  you  will  see  that  it  must  be  so;  unless, 
of  course,  you  believe  in  "affinities."  In  which  case  you 
had  better  not  read  this  tale.  How  can  a  man  who  has 
never  married;  who  cannot  be  trusted  to  pick  up  at  sight 
a  moderately  sound  horse;  whose  head  is  hot  and  upset 
with  visions  of  domestic  felicity,  go  about  the  choosing 
of  a  wife?  He  cannot  see  straight  or  think  straight  if  he 
tries;  and  the  same  disadvantages  exist  in  the  case  of 
a  girl's  fancies.  But  when  mature,  married,  and  discreet 
people  arrange  a  match  between  a  boy  and  a  girl,  they  do 
it  sensibly,  with  a  view  to  the  future,  and  the  young 
couple  live  happily  ever  afterward.    As  everybody  knows. 

Properly  speaking  Government  should  establish  a 
Matrimonial  Department,  efficiently  officered,  with  a 
Jury  of  Matrons,  a  Judge  of  the  Chief  Court,  a  Senior 
Chaplain,  and  an  Awful  Warning,  in  the   shape  of  a 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  97 

love-match  that  has  gone  wrong,  chained  to  the  trees 
in  the  courtyard.  All  marriages  should  be  made  through 
the  Department,  which  might  be  subordinate  to  the 
Educational  Department,  under  the  same  penalty  as  that 
attaching  to  the  transfer  of  land  without  a  stamped  docu- 
ment. But  Government  won't  take  suggestions.  It  pre- 
tends that  it  is  too  busy.  However,  I  will  put  my  notion 
on  record,  and  explain  the  example  that  illustrates 
the  theory. 

Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  good  young  man — 
a  first-class  officer  in  his  own  Department — a  man  with 
a  career  before  him  and,  possibly,  a  K.C.I. E.  at  the  end 
of  it.  All  his  superiors  spoke  well  of  him,  because  he 
knew  how  to  hold  his  tongue  and  his  pen  at  the  proper 
times.  There  are,  to-day,  only  eleven  men  in  India  who 
possess  this  secret;  and  they  have  all,  with  one  excep- 
tion, attained  great  honor  and  enormous  incomes. 

This  good  young  man  was  quiet  and  self-contained — 
too  old  for  his  years  by  far.  Which  always  carries  its  own 
punishment.  Had  a  Subaltern,  or  a  Tea-Planter's  Assist- 
ant, or  anybody  who  enjoys  life  and  has  no  care  for  to- 
morrow, done  what  he  tried  to  do,  not  a  soul  would  have 
cared.  But  when  Peythroppe — the  estimable,  virtuous, 
economical,  quiet,  hard-working  young  Peythroppe — 
fell,  there  was  a  flutter  through  five  Departments. 

The  manner  of  his  fall  was  in  this  way.  He  met  a  Miss 
Castries — d'Castries  it  was  originally,  but  the  family 
dropped  the  d'  for  administrative  reasons — and  he  fell  in 
love  with  her  even  more  energetically  than  he  worked. 
Understand  clearly  that  there  was  not  a  breath  of  a  word 
to  be  said  against  Miss  Castries — not  a  shadow  of  a 
breath.  She  was  good  and  very  lovely — possessed  what 
innocent  people  at  Home  call  a  "Spanish"  complexion, 
with  thick  blue-black  hair  growing  low  down  on  the  fore- 
7 


98  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

head,  into  a  "widow's  peak,"  and  big  violet  eyes  under 
eyebrows  as  black  and  as  straight  as  the  borders  of  a 
Gazette  Extraordinary  when  a  big  man  dies.  But — but 
— but — well,  she  was  a  very  sweet  girl  and  very  pious, 
but  for  many  reasons  she  was  "impossible"  Quite  so. 
All  good  Mammas  know  what  "impossible"  means.  It 
was  obviously  absurd  that  Peythroppe  should  marry  her. 
The  little  opal-tinted  onyx  at  the  base  of  her  finger-nails 
said  this  as  plainly  as  print.  Further,  marriage  with  Miss 
Castries  meant  marriage  with  several  other  Castries — 
Honorary  Lieutenant  Castries,  her  Papa;  Mrs.  Eulalie 
Castries,  her  Mamma,  and  all  the  ramifications  of  the 
Castries  family,  on  incomes  ranging  from  Rs.175  to 
Rs.470  a  month,  and  their  wives  and  connections  again. 

It  would  have  been  cheaper  for  Peythroppe  to  have 
assaulted  a  Commissioner  with  a  dog-whip,  or  to  have 
burned  the  records  of  a  Deputy-Commissioner's  Office, 
than  to  have  contracted  an  alliance  with  the  Castries.  It 
would  have  weighted  his  after-career  less — even  under 
a  Government  which  never  forgets  and  never  forgives. 
Everybody  saw  this  but  Peythroppe.  He  was  going  to 
marry  Miss  Castries,  he  was — being  of  age  and  drawing 
a  good  income — and  woe  betide  the  house  that  would 
not  afterward  receive  Mrs.  Virginie  Saulez  Peythroppe 
with  the  deference  due  to  her  husband's  rank.  That  was 
Peythroppe's  ultimatum,  and  any  remonstrance  drove 
him  frantic. 

These  sudden  madnesses  most  afiflict  the  sanest  men. 
There  was  a  case  once — but  I  will  tell  you  of  that  later 
on.  You  cannot  account  for  the  mania  except  under  a 
theory  directly  contradicting  the  one  about  the  Place 
wherein  marriages  are  made.  Peythroppe  was  burningly 
anxious  to  put  a  millstone  round  his  neck  at  the  outset  of 
his  career;  and  argument  had  not  the  least  effect  on  him. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  99 

He  was  going  to  marry  Miss  Castries,  and  the  business 
was  his  own  business.  He  would  thank  you  to  keep  your 
advice  to  yourself.  With  a  man  in  this  condition,  mere 
words  only  fix  him  in  his  purpose.  Of  course  he  cannot 
see  that  marriage  in  India  does  not  concern  the  indi- 
vidual, but  the  Government  he  serves. 

Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Hauksbee — the  most  wonder- 
ful woman  in  India?  She  saved  Plulitles  from  Mrs. 
Reiver,  won  Tarrion  his  appointment  in  the  Foreign 
Office,  and  was  defeated  in  open  field  by  Mrs.  Cusack- 
Bremmil.  She  heard  of  the  lamentable  condition  of  Pey- 
throppe,  and  her  brain  struck  out  the  plan  that  saved  him. 
She  had  the  wisdom  of  the  Serpent,  the  logical  coherence 
of  the  Man,  the  fearlessness  of  the  Child,  and  the  triple 
intuition  of  the  Woman.  Never — no,  never — as  long  as 
a  tonga  buckets  down  the  Solon  dip,  or  the  couples  go 
a-riding  at  the  back  of  Summer  Hill,  will  there  be  such 
a  genius  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee.  She  attended  the  consulta- 
tion of  Three  Men  on  Peythroppe's  case;  and  she  stood 
up  with  the  lash  of  her  riding-whip  between  her  lips  and 
spake. 

Three  weeks  later  Peythroppe  dined  with  the  Three 
Men,  and  the  Gazette  of  India  came  in.  Peythroppe 
found  to  his  surprise  that  he  had  been  gazetted  a  month's 
leave.  Don't  ask  me  how  this  was  managed.  I  believe 
firmly  that,  if  Mrs.  Hauksbee  gave  the  order,  the  whole 
Great  Indian  Administration  would  stand  on  its  head. 
The  Three  Men  had  also  a  month's  leave  each.  Pey- 
throppe put  the  Gazette  down  and  said  bad  words.  Then 
there  came  from  the  compound  the  soft  "pad-pad"  of 
camels — "thieves'  camels,"  the  Bikaneer  breed  that  don't 
bubble  and  howl  when  they  sit  down  and  get  up. 

After  that  I  don't  know  what  happened.     This  much 


lOO  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

is  certain.  Peythroppe  disappeared — vanished  like 
smoke — and  tiie  long  foot-rest  chair  in  the  house  of  the 
Three  Men  was  broken  to  splinters.  Also  a  bedstead  de- 
parted from  one  of  the  bedrooms. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee  said  that  Mr.  Peythroppe  was  shoot- 
ing in  Rajputana  with  the  Three  Men;  so  we  were  com- 
pelled to  believe  her. 

At  the  end  of  the  month  Peythroppe  was  gazetted 
twenty  days'  extension  of  leave ;  but  there  was  wrath  and 
lamentation  in  the  house  of  Castries.  The  marriage-day 
had  been  fixed,  but  the  bridegroom  never  came:  and  the 
D'Silvas,  Pereiras,  and  Ducketts  lifted  their  voices  and 
mocked  Honorary  Lieutenant  Castries  as  one  who  had 
been  basely  imposed  upon.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  went  to  the 
wedding,  and  was  much  astonished  when  Peythroppe  did 
not  appear.  After  seven  weeks  Peythroppe  and  the 
Three  Men  returned  from  Rajputana.  Peythroppe  was 
in  hard,  tough  condition,  rather  white,  and  more  self- 
contained  than  ever. 

One  of  the  Three  Men  had  a  cut  on  his  nose,  caused 
by  the  kick  of  a  gun.  Twelve-bores  kick  rather  curi- 
ously. 

Then  came  Honorary  Lieutenant  Castries,  seeking  for 
the  blood  of  his  perfidious  son-in-law  to  be.  He  said 
things — vulgar  and  "impossible"  things  which  showed 
the  raw,  rough  "ranker"  below  the  "Honorary,"  and  I 
fancy  Peythroppe's  eyes  were  opened.  Anyhow,  he  held 
his  peace  till  the  end;  when  he  spoke  briefly.  Honorary 
Lieutenant  Castries  asked  for  a  "peg"  before  he  went 
away  to  die  or  bring  a  suit  for  breach  of  promise. 

Miss  Castries  was  a  very  good  girl.  She  said  that 
she  would  have  no  breach  of  promise  suits.  She  said 
that,  if  she  was  not  a  lady,  she  was  refined  enough  to 
know  that  ladies  kept  their  broken  hearts  to  themselves; 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  lOI 

and,  as  she  ruled  her  parents,  nothing  happened.  Later 
on,  she  married  a  most  respectable  and  gentlemanly  per- 
son. He  traveled  for  an  enterprising  firm  in  Calcutta, 
and  was  all  that  a  good  husband  should  be. 

So  Peythroppe  came  to  his  right  mind  again,  and  did 
much  good  work,  and  was  honored  by  all  who  knew 
him.  One  of  these  days  he  will  marry;  but  he  will  marry 
a  sweet  pink-and-white  maiden,  on  the  Government 
House  List,  with  a  little  money  and  some  influential  con- 
nections, as  every  wise  man  should.  And  he  will  never, 
all  his  life,  tell  her  what  happened  during  the  seven 
weeks  of  his  shooting-tour  in  Rajputana. 

But  just  think  how  much  trouble  and  expense — for 
camel-hire  is  not  cheap,  and  those  Bikaneer  brutes  had 
to  be  fed  like  humans — might  have  been  saved  by  a 
properly  conducted  Matrimonial  Department,  under  the 
control  of  the  Director-General  of  Education,  but  corre- 
sponding direct  with  the  Viceroy. 


^  COJ.LEGE  LIBRART 


102  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS, 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO. 

A  stone's  throw  out  on  either  hand 
From  that  well-ordered  road  we  tread. 

And  all  the  world  is  wild  and  strange: 
Churel  and  ghoul  and  Djinn  and  sprite 
Shall  bear  us  company  to-night, 
For  we  have  reached  the  Oldest  Land 

Wherein  the  Powers  of  Darkness  range. 

— From  the  Dusk  to  the  Dawn. 

The  house  of  Suddhoo,  near  the  TaksaH  Gate,  is  two- 
storied,  with  four  carved  windows  of  old  brown  wood, 
and  a  flat  roof.  You  may  recognize  it  by  five  red  hand- 
prints arranged  hke  the  Five  of  Diamonds  on  the  white- 
wash between  the  upper  windows.  Bhagwan  Dass  the 
grocer  and  a  man  who  says  he  gets  his  living  by  seal- 
cutting  live  in  the  lower  story  with  a  troop  of  wives, 
servants,  friends  and  retainers.  The  two  upper  rooms 
used  to  be  occupied  by  Janoo  and  Azizun  and  a  little 
black-and-tan  terrier  that  was  stolen  from  an  English- 
man's house  and  given  to  Janoo  by  a  soldier.  To-day, 
only  Janoo  lives  in  the  upper  rooms.  Suddhoo  sleeps  on 
the  roof  generally,  except  when  he  sleeps  in  the  street. 
He  used  to  go  to  Peshawar  in  the  cold  weather  to  visit 
his  son,  who  sells  curiosities  near  the  Edwardes'  Gate, 
and  then  he  slept  under  a  real  mud  roof.  Suddhoo  is  a 
great  friend  of  mine,  because  his  cousin  had  a  son  who 
secured,  thanks  to  my  recommendation,  the  post  of  head- 
messenger  to  a  big  firm  in  the  Station.  Suddhoo  says 
that  God  will  make  me  a  Lieutenant-Governor  one  of 
these  days.  I  daresay  his  prophecy  will  come  true.  He 
is  very,  very  old,  with  white  hair  and  no  teeth  worth 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  103 

showing,  and  he  has  outUved  his  wits — outhved  nearly 
everything  except  his  fondness  for  his  son  at  Peshawar. 
Janoo  and  Azizun  are  Kashmiris,  Ladies  of  the  City,  and 
theirs  was  an  ancient  and  more  or  less  honorabje  pro- 
fession; but  Azizun  has  since  married  a  medical  student 
from  the  North-West  and  has  settled  down  to  a  most  re- 
spectable hfe  somewhere  near  Bareilly.  Bhagwan  Dass 
is  an  extortionate  and  an  adulterator.  He  is  very  rich. 
The  man  who  is  supposed  to  get  his  living  by  seal-cut- 
ting pretends  to  be  very  poor.  This  lets  you  know  as 
much  as  is  necessary  of  the  four  principal  tenants  in  the 
house  of  Suddhoo.  Then  there  is  Me,  of  course;  but  I 
am  only  the  chorus  that  comes  in  at  the  end  to  explain 
things.     So  I  do  not  count. 

Suddhoo  was  not  clever.  The  man  who  pretended 
to  cut  seals  was  the  cleverest  of  them  all — Bhagwan 
Dass  only  knew  how  to  lie — except  Janoo.  She  was 
also  beautiful,  but  that  was  her  own  affair. 

Suddhoo's  son  at  Peshawar  was  attacked  by  pleurisy, 
and  old  Suddhoo  was  troubled.  The  seal-cutter  man 
heard  of  Suddhoo's  anxiety  and  made  capital  out  of  it. 
He  was  abreast  of  the  times.  He  got  a  friend  in  Pesha- 
war to  telegraph  daily  accounts  of  the  son's  health.  And 
here  the  story  begins. 

Suddhoo's  cousin's  son  told  me,  one  evening,  that 
Suddhoo  wanted  to  see  me;  that  he  was  too  old  and 
feeble  to  comiC  personally,  and  that  I  should  be  confer- 
ring an  everlasting  honor  on  the  House  of  Suddhoo  if 
I  went  to  him.  I  went;  but  I  think,  seeing  how  well 
off  Suddhoo  was  then,  that  he  might  have  sent  some- 
thing better  than  an  ekka,  which  jolted  fearfully,  to  haul 
out  a  future  Lieutenant-Governor  to  the  City  on  a  muggy 
April  evening.  The  ekka  did  not  run  quickly.  It  was 
full  dark  when  we  pulled  up  opposite  the  door  of  Ranjit 


104  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Singh's  Tomb  near  the  main  gate  of  the  Fort.  Here  was 
Suddhoo,  and  he  said  that,  by  reason  of  my  condescen- 
sion, it  was  absolutely  certain  that  I  should  become  a 
Lieutenant-Governor  while  my  hair  was  yet  black.  Then 
we  talked  about  the  weather  and  the  state  of  my  health, 
and  the  wheat  crops,  for  fifteen  minutes,  in  the  Huzuri 
Bagh,  under  the  stars 

Suddhoo  came  to  the  point  at  last.  He  said  that  Janoo 
had  told  him  that  there  was  an  order  of  the  Sirkar  against 
m.agic,  because  it  was  feared  that  magic  might  one  day 
kill  the  Empress  of  India. .  I  didn't  know  anything  about 
the  state  of  the  law ;  but  I  fancied  that  something  inter- 
esting was  going  to  happen.  I  said  that  so  far  from 
magic  being  discouraged  by  the  Government  it  was 
highly  commended.  The  greatest  officials  of  the  State 
practiced  it  themselves.  (If  the  Financial  Statement  isn't 
magic,  I  don't  know  what  is.)  Then,  to  encourage  him 
further,  I  said  that,  if  there  was  any  jadoo  afoot,  I  had 
not  the  least  objection  to  giving  it  my  countenance  and 
sanction,  and  to  seeing  that  it  was  clean  jadoo — white 
magic,  as  distinguished  from  the  unclean  jadoo  which 
kills  folk.  It  took  a  long  time  before  Suddhoo  admitted 
that  this  was  just  what  he  had  asked  me  to  come  for. 
Then  he  told  me,  in  jerks  and  quavers,  that  the  man 
who  said  he  cut  seals  was  a  sorcerer  of  the  cleanest  kind; 
that  every  day  he  gave  Suddhoo  news  of  the  sick  son  in 
Peshawar  more  quickly  than  the  lightning  could  fly,  and 
that  this  news  was  always  corroborated  by  the  letters. 
Further,  that  he  had  told  Suddhoo  how  a  great  danger 
was  threatening  his  son,  which  could  be  removed  by 
clean  jadoo;  and,  of  course,  heavy  payment.  I  began  to 
see  exactly  how  the  land  lay,  and  told  Suddhoo  that  I  also 
understood  a  little  jadoo  in  the  Western  line,  and  would 
go  to  his  house  to  see  that  everything  was  done  decently 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  105 

and  in  order.  Wc  set  off  together;  and  on  the  way 
Suddhoo  told  me  that  he  had  paid  the  seal-cutter  between 
one  hundred  and  two  hundred  rupees  already;  and  the 
jadoo  of  that  night  would  cost  two  hundred  more.  Which 
was  cheap,  he  said,  considering  the  greatness  of  his  son's 
danger;  but  I  do  not  think  he  meant  it. 

The  lights  were  all  cloaked  in  the  front  of  the  house 
when  we  arrived.  I  could  hear  awful  noises  from  behind 
the  seal-cutter's  shop-front,  as  if  some  one  were  groaning 
his  soul  out.  Suddhoo  shook  all  over,  and  while  we 
groped  our  way  upstairs  told  me  that  the  jadoo  had 
begun.  Janoo  and  Azizun  met  us  at  the  stair-head,  and 
told  us  that  the  jadoo-work  was  coming  off  in  their 
rooms,  because  there  was  more  space  there.  Janoo  is  a 
lady  of  a  free-thinking  turn  of  mind.  She  whispered  that 
the  jadoo  was  an  invention  to  get  money  out  of  Sud- 
dhoo, and  that  the  seal-cutter  would  go  to  a  hot  place 
when  he  died.  Suddhoo  was  nearly  crying  with  fear  and 
old  age.  He  kept  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in 
the  half-light,  repeating  his  son's  name  over  and  over 
again,  and  asking  Azizun  if  the  seal-cutter  ought  not  to 
make  a  reduction  in  the  case  of  his  own  landlord.  Janoo 
pulled  me  over  to  the  shadow  in  the  recess  of  the  carved 
bow-windows.  The  boards  were  up,  and  the  rooms  were 
only  lit  by  one  tiny  oil-lamp.  There  was  no  chance  of 
my  being  seen  if  I  stayed  still. 

Presently  the  groans  below  ceased,  and  we  heard  steps 
on  the  staircase.  That  was  the  seal-cutter.  He  stopped 
outside  the  door  as  the  terrier  barked  and  Azizun  fum- 
bled at  the  chain,  and  he  told  Suddhoo  to  blow  out  the 
lamp.  This  left  the  place  in  jet  darkness,  except  for  the 
red  glow  from  the  two  huqas  that  belonged  to  Janoo  and 
Azizun.  The  seal-cutter  came  in,  and  I  heard  Suddhoo 
throw  himself  down  on  the  floor  and  groan.     Azizun 


Io6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

caught  her  breath,  and  Janoo  backed  on  to  one  of  the 
beds  with  a  shudder.  There  was  a  clink  of  something 
metallic,  and  then  shot  up  a  pale  blue-green  flame  near 
the  ground.  The  light  was  just  enough  to  show  Azizun, 
pressed  against  one  corner  of  the  room  with  the  terrier 
between  her  knees;  Janoo,  with  her  hands  clasped,  lean- 
ing forward  as  she  sat  on  the  bed;  Suddhoo,  face  down, 
quivering,  and  the  seal-cutter. 

I  hope  I  may  never  see  another  man  like  that  seal- 
cutter.  He  was  stripped  to  the  waist,  with  a  wreath  of 
white  jasmine  as  thick  as  my  wrist  round  his  forehead,  a 
salmon-colored  loin-cloth  round  his  middle,  and  a  steel 
bangle  on  each  ankle.  This  was  not  awe-inspiring.  It 
was  the  face  of  the  man  that  turned  me  cold.  It 
was  blue-gray  in  the  first  place.  In  the  second,  the  eyes 
were  rolled  back  till  you  could  only  see  the  whites  of 
them ;  and,  in  the  third,  the  face  was  the  face  of  a  demon 
— a  ghoul — anything  you  please  except  of  the  sleek,  oily 
old  ruffian  who  sat  in  the  daytime  over  his  turning-lathe 
downstairs.  He  was  lying  on  his  stomach  with  his  arms 
turned  and  crossed  behind  him,  as  if  he  had  been  thrown 
down  pinioned.  His  head  and  neck  were  the  only  parts 
of  him  ofif  the  floor.  They  were  nearly  at  right  angles 
to  the  body,  like  the  head  of  a  cobra  at  spring.  It  was 
ghastly.  In  the  center  of  the  room,  on  the  bare  earth 
floor,  stood  a  big,  deep,  brass  basin,  with  a  pale  blue- 
green  light  floating  in  the  center  like  a  night-light. 
Round  that  basin  the  man  on  the  floor  wriggled  himself 
three  times.  How  he  did  it  I  do  not  know.  I  could  see 
the  muscles  ripple  along  his  spine  and  fall  smooth  again ; 
but  I  could  not  see  any  other  motion.  The  head  seemed 
the  only  thing  alive  about  him,  except  that  slow  curl 
and  uncurl  of  the  laboring  back-muscles.  Janoo  from 
the  bed  was  breathing  seventy  to  the  minute;    Azizun 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  107 

held  her  hands  before  her  eyes;  and  old  Suddhoo,  finger- 
ing- at  the  dirt  that  had  got  into  his  white  beard,  was  cry- 
ing to  himself.  The  horror  of  it  was  that  the  creeping, 
crawling  thing  made  no  sound — only  crawled!  And,  re- 
member, this  lasted  for  ten  minutes,  while  the  terrier 
whined,  and  Azizun  shuddered,  and  Janoo  gasped,  and 
Suddhoo  cried. 

I  felt  the  hair  lift  at  the  back  of  my  head,  and  my  heart 
thump  like  a  thermantidote  paddle.  Luckily,  the  seal- 
cutter  betrayed  himself  by  his  most  impressive  trick  and 
made  me  calm  again.  After  he  had  finished  that  un- 
speakable triple  crawl,  he  stretched  his  head  away  from 
the  floor  as  high  as  he  could,  and  sent  out  a  jet  of  fire 
from  his  nostrils.  Now  I  knew  how  fire-spouting  is  done 
— I  can  do  it  myself — so  I  felt  at  ease.  The  business  was 
a  fraud.  If  he  had  only  kept  to  that  crawl  without  trying 
to  raise  the  effect,  goodness  knows  what  I  might  not 
have  thought.  Both  the  girls  shrieked  at  the  jet  of  fire 
and  the  head  dropped,  chin-down  on  the  floor,  with  a 
thud;  the  whole  body  lying  then  like  a  corpse  with  its 
arms  trussed.  There  was  a  pause  of  five  full  minutes 
after  this,  and  the  blue-green  flame  died  down.  Janoo 
stooped  to  settle  one  of  her  anklets,  while  Azizun  turned 
her  face  to  the  wall  and  took  the  terrier  in  her  arms. 
Suddhoo  put  out  an  arm  mechanically  to  Janoo's 
huqa,  and  she  slid  it  across  the  floor  with  her  foot.  Di- 
rectly above  the  body  and  on  the  wall,  were  a  couple  of 
flaming  portraits,  in  stamped-paper  frames,  of  the  Queen 
and  the  Prince  of  Wales.  They  looked  down  on  the  per- 
formance, and  to  my  thinking,  seemed  to  heighten  the 
grotesqueness  of  it  all. 

Just  when  the  silence  was  getting  unendurable,  the 
body  turned  over  and  rolled  away  from  the  basin  to  the 
side  of  the  room,  where  it  lay  stomach-up.     There  was 


Io8  PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS. 

a  faint  "plop"  from  the  basin — exactly  like  the  noise  a 
fish  makes  when  it  takes  a  fly — and  the  green  light  in  the 
center  revived. 

I  looked  at  the  basin,  and  saw,  bobbing  in  the  water, 
the  dried,  shriveled,  black  head  of  a  native  baby — open 
eyes,  open  mouth,  and  shaved  scalp.  It  was  worse,  being 
so  very  sudden,  than  the  crawling  exhibition.  We  had 
no  time  to  say  anything  before  it  began  to  speak. 

Read  Poe's  account  of  the  voice  that  came  from  the 
mesmerized  dying  man,  and  you  will  realize  less  than 
one-half  of  the  horror  of  that  head's  voice 

There  was  an  interval  of  a  second  or  two  between  each 
word,  and  a  sort  of  "ring,  ring,  ring,"  in  the  note  of  the 
voice,  like  the  timbre  of  a  bell.  It  pealed  slowly,  as  it 
talking  to  itself,  for  several  minutes  before  I  got  rid  of 
my  cold  sweat.  Then  the  blessed  solution  struck  me.  I 
looked  at  the  body  lyir.r  .:ear  the  doorway,  anil  saw,  just 
where  the  hollow  of  the  throat  joins  on  the  shoulders,  a 
muscle  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  man's  regular 
breathing  twitching  away  steadily.  The  whole  thing  was 
a  careful  reproduction  of  the  Egyptian  teraphin  that  one 
reads  about  sometimes,  and  the  voice  was  as  clever  and 
as  appalling  a  piece  of  ventriloquism  as  one  could  wish 
to  hear.  All  this  time  the  head  was  "lip-lip-lapping" 
against  the  side  of  the  basin,  and  speaking.  It  told  Sud- 
dhoo,  on  his  face  again  whining,  of  his  son's  illness  and 
of  the  state  of  the  illness  up  to  the  evening  of  that  very 
night.  I  always  shall  respect  the  seal-cutter  for  keeping 
so  faithfully  to  the  time  of  Peshawar  telegrams.  It 
went  on  to  say  that  skilled  doctors  were  night  and  day 
watching  over  the  man's  life  and  that  he  would  event- 
ually recover  if  the  fee  to  the  potent  sorcerer,  whose 
servant  was  the  head  in  the  basin,  were  doubled. 

Here  the  mistake  from  the  artistic  point  of  view  came 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I09 

in.  To  ask  for  twice  your  stipulated  fee  in  a  voice  that 
Lazarus  might  have  used  when  he  rose  from  the  dead,  is 
absurd.  Janoo,  who  is  really  a  woman  of  masculine  in- 
tellect, saw  this  as  quickly  as  I  did.  I  heard  her  say, 
"Asli  nahin!  Fareib!"  scornfully  under  her  breath;  and 
just  as  she  said  so,  the  light  in  the  basin  died  out,  the 
head  stopped  talking,  and  we  heard  the  room  door  creak 
on  its  hinges.  Then  Janoo  struck  a  match,  lit  the  lamp, 
and  we  saw  that  head,  basin,  and  seal-cutter  were  gone. 
Suddhoo  was  wringing  his  hands  and  explaining  to  any 
one  who  cared  to  listen,  that,  if  his  chances  of  eternal 
salvation  depended  on  it,  he  could  not  raise  another  two 
hundred  rupees.  Azizun  was  nearly  in  hysterics  in  the 
corner;  while  Janoo  sat  down  composedly  on  one  of  the 
beds  to  discuss  the  probabilities  of  the  whole  thing  being 
a  bunao,  or  "make-up." 

I  explained  as  much  as  I  knew  of  the  seal-cutter's  way 
of  jadoo;  but  her  argument  was  much  more  simple — • 
"The  magic  that  is  always  demanding  gifts  is  no  true 
magic,"  said  she.  "My  mother  told  me  that  the  only 
potent  love-spells  are  those  which  are  told  you  for  love. 
This  seal-cutter  man  is  a  liar  and  a  devil.  I  dare  not 
tell,  do  anything,  or  get  anything  done,  because  I  am 
in  debt  to  Bhagwan  Dass  the  bunnia  for  two  gold  rings 
and  a  heavy  anklet.  I  must  get  my  food  from  his  shop. 
The  seal-cutter  is  the  friend  of  Bhagwan  Dass,  and  he 
would  poison  my  food.  A  fool's  jadoo  has  been  going  on 
for  ten  days,  and  has  cost  Suddhoo  many  rupees  each 
night.  The  seal-cutter  used  black  hens  and  lemons  and 
mantras  before.  He  never  showed  us  anything  like  this 
till  to-night.  Azizun  is  a  fool,  and  will  be  a  purdahnashin 
soon.  Suddhoo  has  lost  his  strength  and  his  wits.  See 
now!  I  had  hoped  to  get  from  Suddhoo  many  rupees 
while  he  lived,  and  many  more  after  his  death;   and  be- 


I  lO  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

hold,  he  is  spending  everything  on  that  offspring  of  a 
devil  and  a  she-ass,  the  seal-cutter!" 

Here  I  said,  "But  what  induced  Suddhoo  to  drag  me 
into  the  business?  Of  course  I  can  speak  to  the  seal- 
cutter,  and  he  shall  refund.  The  whole  thing  is  child's 
talk — shame — and  senseless." 

"Suddhoo  is  an  old  child,"  said  Janoo.  "He  has  lived 
on  the  roofs  these  seventy  years  and  is  as  senseless  as  a 
milch-goat.  He  brought  you  here  to  assure  himself  that 
he  was  not  breaking  any  law  of  the  Sirkar,  whose  salt 
he  ate  many  years  ago.  He  worships  the  dust  ofif  the  feet 
of  the  seal-cutter,  and  that  cow-devourer  has  forbidden 
him  to  go  and  see  his  son.  What  does  Suddhoo  know  of 
your  laws  or  the  lightning-post?  I  have  to  watch  his 
money  going  day  by  day  to  that  lying  beast  below." 

Janoo  stamped  her  foot  on  the  floor  and  nearly  cried 
with  vexation;  while  Suddhoo  was  whimpering  under  a 
blanket  in  the  corner,  and  Azizun  was  trying  to  guide 
the  pipe-stem  to  his  foolish  old  mouth. 

Now  the  case  stands  thus.  Unthinkingly,  I  have  laid 
myself  open  to  the  charge  of  aiding  and  abetting  the  seal- 
cutter  in  obtaining  money  under  false  pretenses,  which 
is  forbidden  by  Section  420  of  the  Indian  Penal  Code.  I 
am  helpless  in  the  matter  for  these  reasons.  I  cannot 
inform  the  Police.  What  witnesses  would  support  my 
statements?  Janoo  refuses  flatly  and  Azizun  is  a  veiled 
woman  somewhere  near  Bareilly — lost  in  this  big  India 
of  ours.  I  dare  not  again  take  the  law  into  my  own 
hands,  and  speak  to  the  seal-cutter  for  certain  am  I  that, 
not  only  would  Suddhoo  disbelieve  me,  but  this  step 
would  end  in  the  poisoning  of  Janoo,  who  is  bound  hand 
and  foot  by  her  debt  to  the  bunnia.  Suddhoo  is  an  old 
dotard;  and  whenever  we  meet  mumbles  my  idiotic  joke 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  1 1 1 

that  the  Sirkar  rather  patronizes  the  Black  Art  than 
otherwise.  His  son  is  well  now;  but  Suddhoo  is  com- 
pletely under  the  influence  of  the  seal-cutter,  by  whose 
advice  he  regulates  the  affairs  of  his  life.  Janoo  watches 
daily  the  money  that  she  hoped  to  wheedle  out  of  Sud- 
dhoo taken  by  the  seal-cutter,  and  becomes  daily  more 
furious  and  sullen. 

She  will  never  tell,  because  she  dare  not;  but,  unless 
something  happens  to  prevent  her,  I  am  afraid  that  the 
seal-cutter  will  die  of  cholera — the  white  arsenic  kind — 
about  the  middle  of  May.  And  thus  I  shall  be  privy  to 
a  murder  in  the  House  of  Suddhoo 


112  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE. 

Cry  'Murder!'  in  the  market-place,  and  each 

Will  turn  upon  his  neighbor  anxious  eyes 

That  ask — 'Art  thou  the  man?'    We  hunted  Cain, 

Some  centuries  ago,  across  the  world. 

That  bred  the  fear  our  own  misdeeds  maintain 

To-day. 

— Vibart's  Moralities. 

Shakespeare  says  something  about  worms,  or  it  may 
be  giants  or  beetles,  turning  if  you  tread  on  them  too  se- 
verely. The  safest  plan  is  never  to  tread  on  a  worm — 
not  even  on  the  last  new  subaltern  from  Home,  with  his 
btittons  hardly  out  of  their  tissue-paper,  and  the  red  of 
sappy  English  beef  in  his  cheeks.  This  is  a  story  of  the 
worm  that  turned.  For  the  sake  of  brevity,  we  will  call 
Henry  Augustus  Ramsay  Faizanne,  "The  Worm," 
though  he  really  was  an  exceedingly  pretty  boy,  without 
a  hair  on  his  face,  and  with  a  waist  like  a  girl's,  when  he 
came  out  to  the  Second  "Shikarris"  and  was  made  un- 
happy in  several  ways.  The  "Shikarris*'  are  a  high-caste 
regiment,  and  you  must  be  able  to  do  things  well — play 
a  banjo,  or  ride  more  than  little,  or  sing,  or  act — to  get 
on  with  them. 

The  Worm  did  nothing  except  fall  ofY  his  pony,  and 
knock  chips  out  of  gateposts  wnth  his  trap.  Even  that  be- 
came monotonous  after  a  time.  He  objected  to  whist, 
cut  the  cloth  at  billiards,  sang  out  of  tune,  kept  very 
much  to  himself,  and  wrote  to  his  Mamma  and  sisters  at 
Home.  Four  of  these  five  things  were  vices  which  the 
"Shikarris''  objected  to  and  set  themselves  to  eradicate. 
Everyone  knows  how  subalterns  are,  by  brother  subalt- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  II3 

erns,  softened  and  not  permitted  to  be  ferocious.  It  is 
good  and  wholesome,  and  does  no  one  any  harm,  unless 
tempers  are  lost;  and  then  there  is  trouble.  There  was 
a  man  once 

The  "Shikarris"  shikarred  The  Worm  very  much,  and 
he  bore  everything  without  winking.  He  was  so  good 
and  so  anxious  to  learn,  and  flushed  so  pink,  that  his  edu- 
cation was  cut  short,  and  he  was  left  to  his  own  devices 
by  every  one  except  the  Senior  Subaltern,  who  continued 
to  make  life  a  burden  to  The  Worm.  The  Senior  Subalt- 
ern meant  no  harm;  but  his  chafif  was  coarse  and  he 
didn't  quite  understand  where  to  stop.  He  had  been 
waiting  too  long  for  his  Company ;  and  that  always  sours 
a  man.    And  he  was  in  love,  which  made  him  worse. 

One  day,  after  he  had  borrowed  The  Worm's  trap  for 
a  lady  who  never  existed,  had  used  it  himself  all  the  after- 
noon, had  sent  a  note,  to  The  Worm,  purporting  to  come 
from  the  lady,  and  was  telling  the  Mess  all  about  it.  The 
Worm  rose  in  his  place  and  said,  in  his  quiet,  lady-like 
voice — "That  was  a  very  pretty  sell;  but  I'll  lay  you  a 
month's  pay  to  a  month's  pay  when  you  get  your  step, 
that  I  work  a  sell  on  you  that  you'll  remember  for  the 
rest  of  your  days,  and  the  Regiment  after  you  when  you're 
dead  or  broke."  The  Worm  wasn't  angry  in  the  least,  and 
the  rest  of  the  Mess  shouted.  Then  the  Senior  Subaltern 
looked  at  The  Worm  from  the  boots  upwards,  and  down 
again,  and  said — "Done,  Baby."  The  Worm  held  the  rest 
of  the  Aless  to  witness  that  the  bet  had  been  taken,  and 
retired  into  a  book  with  a  sweet  smile. 

Two  months  passed,  and  the  Senior  Subaltern  still  edu- 
cated The  Worm,  who  began  to  move  about  a  little  more 
as  the  hot  weather  came  on.  I  have  said  that  the  Senior 
Subaltern  was  in  love.  The  curious  thing  is  that  a  girl 
was  in  love  with  the  Senior  Subaltern.    Though  the  Col- 

8 


1 14  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

onel  said  awful  things,  and  the  Majors  snorted,  and  the 
married  Captains  looked  unutterable  wisdom,  and  the 
juniors  scoffed,  those  two  were  engaged. 

The  Senior  Subaltern  was  so  pleased  with  getting  his 
Company  and  his  acceptance  at  the  same  time  that  he  for- 
got to  bother  The  Worm.  The  girl  was  a  pretty  girl,  and 
had  money  of  her  own.  She  does  not  come  into  this 
story  at  all. 

One  night,  at  the  beginning  of  the  hot  weather,  all 
the  Mess,  except  The  Worm  who  had  gone  to  his  own 
room  to  write  Home  letters,  were  sitting  on  the  platform 
outside  the  Mess  House.  The  Band  had  finished  playing, 
but  no  one  wanted  to  go  in.  And  the  Captains'  wives 
were  there  also.  The  folly  of  a  man  in  love  is  unlimited. 
The  Senior  Subaltern  had  been  holding  forth  on  the 
merits  of  the  girl  he  was  engaged  to,  and  the  ladies  were 
purring  approval  while  the  men  yawned,  when  there  was 
a  rustle  of  skirts  in  the  dark,  and  a  tired,  faint  voice  lifted 
itself. 

"Where's  my  husband?" 

I  do  not  wish  in  the  least  to  reflect  on  the  morality  of 
the  "Shikarris;"  but  it  is  on  record  that  four  men  jumped 
up  as  if  they  had  been  shot.  Three  of  them  were  married 
men.  Perhaps  they  were  afraid  that  their  wives  had  come 
from  Home  unbeknownst.  The  fourth  said  that  he  had 
acted  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  He  explained  this 
afterwards. 

Then  the  voice  cried,  "O  Lionel!"  Lionel  was  the 
Senior  Subaltern's  name.  A  woman  came  into  the  little 
circle  of  light  by  the  candles  on  the  peg-tables,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hands  to  the  dark  where  the  Senior  Subaltern 
was,  and  sobbing.  We  rose  to  our  feet,  feeling  that 
things  were  going  to  happen  and  ready  to  believe  the 
worst.    In  this  bad,  small  world  of  ours,  one  knows  so 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  II5 

little  of  the  life  of  the  next  man — which,  after  all,  is  en- 
tirely his  own  concern — that  one  is  not  surprised  when  a 
crash  comes.  Anything  might  turn  up  any  day  for  any 
one.  Perhaps  the  Senior  Subaltern  had  been  trapped  in 
his  youth.  Men  are  crippled  that  way  occasionally.  We 
didn't  know;  we  wanted  to  hear;  and  the  Captains'  wives 
were  as  anxious  as  we.  If  he  had  been  trapped,  he  was  to 
be  excused;  for  the  woman  from  nowhere,  in  the  dusty 
shoes  and  gray  traveling-dress,  was  very  lovely,  with 
black  hair  and  great  eyes  full  of  tears.  She  was  tall,  with 
a  fine  figure,  and  her  voice  had  a  running  sob  in  it  pitiful 
to  hear.  As  soon  as  the  Senior  Subaltern  stood  up,  she 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  called  him  "my  dar- 
ling," and  said  she  could  not  bear  waiting  alone  in  Eng- 
land, and  his  letters  were  so  short  and  cold,  and  she  was 
his  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  would  he  forgive  her? 
This  did  not  sound  quite  like  a  lady's  way  of  speaking. 
It  was  too  demonstrative. 

Things  seemed  black  indeed,  and  the  Captains'  wives 
peered  under  their  eyebrows  at  the  Senior  Subaltern,  and 
the  Colonel's  face  set  like  the  Day  of  Judgment  framed 
in  gray  bristles,  and  no  one  spoke  for  a  while. 

Next  the  Colonel  said,  very  shortly,  "Well,  Sir?''  and 
the  woman  sobbed  afresh.  The  Senior  Subaltern  was  half 
choked  with  the  arms  round  his  neck,  but  he  gasped  out 
— "It's  a  damned  lie!  I  never  had  a  wife  in  my  life!" — 
"Don't  swear,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Come  into  the  Mess. 
We  must  sift  this  clear  somehow,"  and  he  sighed  to  him- 
self, for  he  believed  in  his  "Shikarris,"  did  the  Colonel. 

We  trooped  into  the  ante-room,  under  the  full  lights, 
and  there  we  saw  how  beautiful  the  woman  was.  She 
stood  up  in  the  middle  of  us  all,  sometimes  choking  with 
crying,  then  hard  and  proud,  and  then  holding  out  her 
arms  to  tbe  Senior  Subaltern.    It  was  like  the  fourth  act 


1 16  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

of  a  tragedy.  She  told  us  how  the  Senior  Subaltern  had 
married  her  when  he  was  Home  on  leave  eighteen  months 
before;  and  she  seemed  to  know  all  that  we  knew,  and 
more  too,  of  his  people  and  his  past  life.  He  was  white 
and  ashy-gray,  trying  now  and  again  to  break  into  the 
torrent  of  her  words ;  and  we,  noting  how  lovely  she  was 
and  what  a  criminal  he  looked,  esteemed  him  a  beast  of 
the  worst  kind.    We  felt  sorry  for  him,  though. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  indictment  of  the  Senior  Subal- 
tern by  his  wife.  Nor  will  he.  It  was  so  sudden,  rush- 
ing out  of  the  dark,  unannounced,  into  our  dull  lives. 
The  Captains'  wives  stood  back;  but  their  eyes  were 
alight,  and  you  could  see  they  had  already  convicted  and 
sentenced  the  Senior  Subaltern.  The  Colonel  seemed  five 
years  older.  One  Major  was  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  and  watching  the  woman  from  underneath  it.  An- 
other was  chewing  his  moustache  and  smiling  quietly  as 
if  he  were  witnessing  a  play.  Full  in  the  open  space  in 
the  center,  by  the  whist-tables,  the  Senior  Subaltern's 
terrier  was  hunting  for  fleas.  I  remember  all  this  as 
clearly  as  though  a  photograph  were  in  my  hand.  I  re- 
member the  look  of  horror  on  the  Senior  Subaltern's  face. 
It  was  rather  like  seeing  a  man  hanged ;  but  much  more 
interesting.  Finally,  the  woman  wound  up  by  saying 
that  the  Senior  Subaltern  carried  a  double  F.  M.  in  tattoo 
on  his  left  shoulder.  We  all  knew  that,  and  to  our  inno- 
cent minds  it  seemed  to  clinch  the  matter.  But  one  of 
the  bachelor  Majors  said  very  politely,  'T  presume  that 
your  marriage-certificate  would  be  more  to  the  purpose?" 

That  roused  the  woman.  She  stood  up  and  sneered  at 
the  Senior  Subaltern  for  a  cur,  and  abused  the  Major  and 
the  Colonel  and  all  the  rest.  Then  she  wept,  and  then 
she  pulled  a  paper  from  her  breast,  saying  imperially. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE   HILLS.  II7 

"Take  that!  And  let  my  husband — my  lawfully  wedded 
husband — read  it  aloud — if  he  dare !" 

There  was  a  hush,  and  the  men  looked  into  each  oth- 
er's eyes  as  the  Senior  Subaltern  came  forward  in  a  dazed 
and  dizzy  way,  and  took  the  paper.  We  were  wondering, 
as  we  stared,  whether  there  was  anything  against  any 
one  of  us  that  might  turn  up  later  on.  The  Senior  Sub- 
altern's throat  was  dry;  but,  as  he  ran  his  eye  over  the 
paper,  he  broke  out  into  a  hoarse  cackle  of  relief,  and  said 
to  the  woman,  "You  young  blackguard!"  But  the  woman 
had  fled  through  a  door,  and  on  the  paper  was  written, 
"This  is  to  certify  that  I.  The  Worm,  have  paid  in  full  my 
debts  to  the  Senior  Subaltern,  and,  further,  that  the  Sen- 
ior Subaltern  is  my  debtor,  by  agreement  on  the  23d  of 
February,  as  by  the  Mess  attested,  to  the  extent  of  one 
month's  Captain's  pay,  in  the  lawful  currency  of  the  In- 
dian Empire." 

Then  a  deputation  set  off  for  The  Worm's  quarters 
and  found  him,  betwixt  and  between,  unlacing  his  stays, 
with  the  hat,  wig,  and  serge  dress,  on  the  bed.  He  came 
over  as  he  was,  and  the  "Shikarris'  shouted  till  the  Gun- 
ners' Mess  sent  over  to  know  if  they  might  have  a  share 
of  the  fun.  I  think  we  were  all,  except  the  Colonel  and 
the  Senior  Subaltern,  a  little  disappointed  that  the  scandal 
had  come  to  nothing.  But  that  is  human  nature.  There 
could  be  no  two  words  about  The  Worm's  acting.  It 
leaned  as  near  to  a  nasty  tragedy  as  anything  this  side 
of  a  joke  can.  When  most  of  the  Subalterns  sat  upon 
him  with  sofa-cushions  to  find  out  why  he  had  not  said 
that  acting  was  his  strong  point,  he  answered  very  quiet- 
ly, "I  don't  think  you  ever  asked  me.  I  used  to  act  at 
Home  with  my  sisters."  But  no  acting  with  girls  could 
account  for  The  Worm's  display  that  night.    Personally, 


1 1 8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

I  think  it  was  in  bad  taste.  Besides  being  dangerous. 
There  is  no  sort  of  use  in  playing  with  fire,  even  for  fun. 

The  "Shikarris"  made  him  President  of  the  Regimental 
Dramatic  Club ;  and,  when  the  Senior  Subaltern  paid  up 
his  debt,  which  he  did  at  once,  The  Worm  sank  the 
money  in  scenery  and  dresses.  He  was  a  good  Worm; 
and  the  "Shikarris"  are  proud  of  him.  The  only  draw- 
back is  that  he  has  been  christened  "Mrs.  Senior  Subal- 
tern;" and,  as  there  are  now  two  Mrs.  Senior  Subalterns 
in  the  Station,  this -is  sometimes  confusing  to  strangers. 

Later  on,  I  will  tell  you  of  a  case  something  like  this, 
but  with  all  the  jest  left  out  and  nothing  in  it  but  real 
trouble. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  IIQ 


THE  BROKEN  LINK  HANDICAP. 

While  the  snaffle  holds,  or  the  long-neck  stings. 
While  the  big  beam  tilts,  or  the  last  bell  rings. 
While  horses  are  horses  to  train  and  to  race. 
Then  women  and  wine  take  a  second  place 

For  me — for  me — 

While  a  short  'ten-three' 
Has  a  field  to  squander  or  fence  to  face! 

—Song  of  the  G.  R. 

There  are  more  ways  of  running  a  horse  to  suit  your 
book  than  pulling  his  head  off  in  the  straight.  Some  men 
forget  this.  Understand  clearly  that  all  racing  is  rotten 
— as  everything  connected  with  losing  money  must  be. 
In  India,  in  addition  to  its  inherent  rottenness,  it  has  the 
merit  of  being  two-thirds  sham;  looking  pretty  on  paper 
only.  Every  one  knows  every  one  else  far  too  well  for 
business  purposes.  How  on  earth  can  you  rack  and 
harry  and  post  a  man  for  his  losings,  when  you  are  fond 
of  his  wife,  and  live  in  the  same  Station  with  him?  He 
says,  "On  the  Monday  following,"  "I  can't  settle  just  yet." 
You  say,  "All  right,  old  man,"  and  think  yourself  lucky 
if  you  pull  off  nine  hundred  out  of  a  two-thousand-rupee 
debt.  Any  way  you  look  at  it,  Indian  racing  is  immoral, 
and  expensively  immoral.  Which  is  much  worse.  If  a 
man  wants  your  money,  he  ought  to  ask  for  it,  or  send 
round  a  subscription-list,  instead  of  juggling  about  the 
country,  with  an  Australian  larrikin;  a  "brumby,"  with 
as  much  breed  as  the  boy;  a  brace  of  chumars  in  gold- 
laced  caps;  three  or  four  ekka-ponies  with  hogged 
manes,  and  a  switch-tailed  demirep  of  a  mare  called  Arab 
because  she  has  a  kink  in  her  flag.    Racing  leads  to  the 


I20  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

shroff  quicker  than  anything  else.  But  if  you  have  no 
conscience  and  no  sentiments,  and  good  hands,  and  some 
knowledge  of  pace,  and  ten  years'  experience  of  horses, 
and  several  thousand  rupees  a  month,  I  believe  that  you 
can  occasionally  contrive  to  pay  your  shoeing-bills. 

Did  you  ever  know  Shackles — b.  w.  g.,  15.  i  | — 
coarse,  loose,  mule-like  ears — barrel  as  long  as  a  gate- 
post— tough  as  a  telegraph-wire — and  the  queerest  brute 
that  ever  looked  through  a  bridle?  He  was  of  no  brand, 
being  one  of  an  ear-nicked  mob  taken  into  the  Bucepha- 
lus at  £4:105.  a  head  to  make  up  freight,  and  sold  raw 
and  out  of  condition  at  Calcutta  for  Rs.275.  People  who 
lost  money  on  him  called  him  a  "brumby";  but  if  ever  any 
horse  had  Harpoon's  shoulders  and  The  Gin's  temper. 
Shackles  was  that  horse.  Two  miles  was  his  own  par- 
ticular distance.  He  trained  himself,  ran  himself,  and 
rode  himself;  and,  if  his  jockey  insulted  him  by  giving 
him  hints,  he  shut  up  at  once  and  bucked  the  boy  off.  He 
objected  to  dictation.  Two  or  three  of  his  owners  did  not 
understand  this,  and  lost  money  in  consequence.  At  last 
he  was  bought  by  a  man  who  discovered  that,  if  a  race 
was  to  be  won,  Shackles,  and  Shackles  only,  would  win 
it  in  his  own  way,  so  long  as  his  jockey  sat  still.  This 
man  had  a  riding-boy  called  Brunt — a  lad  from  Perth, 
West  Australia — and  he  taught  Brunt,  with  a  trainer's 
whip,  the  hardest  thing  a  jock  can  learn — to  sit  still,  to 
sit  still,  and  keep  on  sitting  still.  When  Brunt  fairly 
grasped  this  truth.  Shackles  devastated  the  country.  No 
weight  could  stop  him  at  his  own  distance;  and  the  fame 
of  Shackles  spread  from  x^jmir  in  the  South,  to  Ched- 
putter  in  the  North.  There  was  no  horse  like  Shackles, 
so  long  as  he  was  allowed  to  do  his  work  in  his  own  way. 
But  he  was  beaten  in  the  end;  and  the  story  of  his  fall 
is  enough  to  make  angels  weep. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  121 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  Chedputter  race-course,  just 
before  the  turn  into  the  straight,  the  track  passes  close 
to  a  couple  of  old  brick-mounds  enclosing  a  funnel- 
shaped  hollow.  The  big  end  of  the  funnel  is  not  six  feet 
from  the  railings  on  the  off-side.  The  astonishing  pe- 
culiarity of  the  course  is  that,  if  you  stand  at  one  particu- 
lar place,  about  half  a  mile  away,  inside  the  course,  and 
speak  at  ordinary  pitch,  your  voice  just  hits  the  funnel 
of  the  brick-mounds  and  makes  a  curious  whining  echo 
there.  A  man  discovered  this  one  morning  by  accident 
while  out  training  with  a  friend.  He  marked  the  place 
to  stand  and  speak  from  with  a  couple  of  bricks,  and  he 
kept  his  knowledge  to  himself.  Every  peculiarity  of  a 
course  is  worth  remembering  in  a  country  where  rats 
play  the  mischief  with  the  elephant-litter,  and  Stewards 
build  jumps  to  suit  their  own  stables.  This  man  ran  a 
very  fairish  country-bred,  a  long,  racking  high  mare  with 
the  temper  of  a  fiend,  and  the  paces  of  an  airy  wandering 
seraph — a  drifty,  glidy  stretch.  The  mare  was,  as  a  deli- 
cate tribute  to  Mrs.  Reiver,  called  "The  Lady  Regula 
Baddun" — or  for  short,  Regula  Baddun. 

Shackles'  jockey.  Brunt,  was  a  quite  well-behaved  boy, 
but  his  nerve  had  been  shaken.  He  began  his  career  by 
riding  jump-races  in  Melbourne,  where  a  few  Stew- 
ards want  lynching,  and  was  one  of  the  jockeys  who  came 
through  the  awful  butchery — perhaps  you  will  recollect 
it — of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate.  The  walls  were  colonial 
ramparts — logs  of  jarrah  spiked  into  the  masonry — with 
wings  as  strong  as  Church  buttresses.  Once  in  his  stride, 
a  horse  had  to  jump  or  fall.  He  couldn't  run  out.  In 
the  Maribyrnong  Plate,  twelve  horses  were  jammed  at 
the  second  wall.  Red  Hat,  leading,  fell  this  side,  and 
threw  out  The  Gled  and  the  ruck  came  up  behind  and  the 
space    between   wing    and   wing   was     one    struggling. 


122  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

screaming,  kicking  shambles.  Four  jockeys  were  taken 
out  dead;  three  were  very  badly  hurt,  and  Brunt  was 
among  the  three.  He  told  the  story  of  the  Maribyrnong 
Plate  sometimes;  and  when  he  described  how  Whalley 
on  Red  Hat,  said,  as  the  mare  fell  under  him — "God  ha' 
mercy,  I'm  done  for!"  and  how,  next  instant,  Sithee  There 
and  White  Otter  had  crushed  the  life  out  of  poor  Whal- 
ley, and  the  dust  hid  a  small  hell  of  men  and  horses,  no 
one  marvelled  that  Brunt  had  dropped  jump-races  and 
Australia  together.  Regula  Baddun's  owner  knew  that 
story  by  heart.  Brunt  never  varied  it  in  the  telling.  He 
had  no  education. 

Shackles  came  to  the  Chedputter  Autumn  races  one 
year,  and  his  owner  walked  about  insulting  the  sports- 
men of  Chedputter  generally,  till  they  went  to  the  Honor- 
ary Secretary  in  a  body  and  said,  "Appoint  handicappers, 
and  arrange  a  race  which  shall  break  Shackles  and  hum- 
ble the  pride  of  his  owner."  The  Districts  rose  against 
Shackles  and  sent  up  of  their  best;  Ousel,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  be  able  to  do  his  mile  in  1 153 ;  Petard,  the  stud- 
bred,  trained  by  a  cavalry  regiment  who  knew  how  to 
train;  Gringalet,  the  ewe-lamb  of  the  75th;  BoboHnk, 
the  pride  of  the  Peshawar;  and  many  others. 

They  called  that  race  The  Broken-Link  Handicap,  be- 
cause it  was  to  smash  Shackles;  and  the  Handicappers 
piled  on  the  weights,  and  the  Fund  gave  eight  hundred 
rupees,  and  the  distance  was  "round  the  course  for  all 
horses."  Shackles'  owner  said,  "You  can  arrange  the 
race  with  regard  to  Shackles  only.  So  long  as  you  don't 
bury  him  under  weight-cloths,  I  don't  mind."  Regula 
Baddun's  owner  said,  "I  throw  in  my  mare  to  fret  Ousel. 
Six  furlongs  is  Regula's  distance,  and  she  will  then  lie 
down  and  die.  So  also  will  Ousel,  for  his  jockey  doesn't 
understand  a  waiting  race."     Now,  this  was  a  lie,  for 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE   HILLS.  1 23 

Regula  had  been  in  work  for  two  months  at  Dehra,  and 
her  chances  were  good,  ahvays  supposing  that  Shackles 
broke  a  blood-vessel — or  Brunt  moved  on  him. 

The  plunging  in  the  lotteries  was  fine.  They  filled 
eight  thousand-rupee  lotteries  on  the  Broken-Link 
Handicap,  and  the  account  in  the  Pioneer  said  that  "fa- 
voritism was  divided."  In  plain  English,  the  various  con- 
tingents were  wild  on  their  respective  horses;  for  the 
Handicappers  had  done  their  work  well.  The  Honorary 
Secretary  shouted  himself  hoarse  through  the  din;  and 
the  smoke  of  the  cheroots  was  like  the  smoke,  and  the 
rattling  of  the  dice-boxes  like  the  rattle  of  small-arm 
fire. 

Ten  horses  started — very  level — and  Regula  Baddun's 
owner  cantered  out  on  his  hack  to  a  place  inside  the  circle 
of  the  course,  where  two  bricks  had  been  thrown.  He 
faced  towards  the  brick-mounds  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
course  and  waited. 

The  story  of  the  running  is  in  the  Pioneer.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  mile,  Shackles  crept  out  of  the  ruck,  well  on 
the  outside,  ready  to  get  round  the  turn,  lay  hold  of  the 
bit  and  spin  up  the  straight  before  the  others  knew  he 
had  got  away.  Brunt  was  sitting  still,  perfectly  happy, 
listening  to  the  "drum-drum-drum"  of  the  hoofs  behind, 
and  knowing  that,  in  about  twenty  strides,  Shackles  would 
draw  one  deep  breath  and  go  up  the  last  half-mile  like  the 
"Flying  Dutchman."  As  Shackles  went  short  to  take 
the  turn  and  came  abreast  of  the  brick-mound.  Brunt 
heard,  above  the  noise  of  the  wind  in  his  ears,  a  whining, 
wailing  voice  on  the  ofifside,  saying — "God  ha'  mercy,  I'm 
done  for!"  In  one  stride.  Brunt  saw  the  whole  seething 
smash  of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate  before  him,  started  in 
his  saddle  and  gave  a  yell  of  terror.  The  start  brought 
the  heels  into  Shackles'  side,  and  the  scream  hurt  Shack- 


124  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Icb'  feelings.  He  couldn't  stop  dead;  but  he  put  out  his 
feet  and  slid  along  for  fifty  yards,  and  then,  very  gravely 
and  judiciously,  bucked  ofif  Brunt — a  shaking,  terror- 
stricken  lump,  while  Regula  Baddun  made  a  neck-and- 
neck  race  with  Bobolink  up  the  straight,  and  won  by  a 
short  head — Petard  a  bad  third.  Shackles'  owner,  in  the 
Stand,  tried  to  think  that  his  field-glasses  had  gone 
wrong.  Regula  Baddun's  owner,  waiting  by  the  two 
bricks,  gave  one  deep  sigh  of  relief,  and  cantered  back  to 
the  Stand.  He  had  won,  in  lotteries  and  bets,  about  fif- 
teen thousand. 

It  was  a  Broken-link  Handicap  with  a  vengeance.  It 
broke  nearly  all  the  men  concerned,  and  nearly  broke  the 
heart  of  Shackles'  owner.  He  sent  down  to  interview 
Brunt.  The  boy  lay,  livid  and  gasping  with  fright,  where 
he  had  tumbled  ofY.  The  sin  of  losing  the  race  never 
seemed  to  strike  him.  All  he  knew  was  that  Whalley 
had  "called"  him,  that  the  "call"  was  a  warning;  and, 
were  he  cut  in  two  for  it,  he  would  never  get  up  again. 
His  nerve  had  gone  altogether,  and  he  only  asked  his 
master  to  give  him  a  good  thrashing,  and  let  him  go. 
He  was  fit  for  nothing,  he  said.  He  got  his  dismissal, 
and  crept  up  to  the  paddock,  white  as  chalk,  with  blue 
lips,  his  knees  giving  way  under  him.  People  said  nasty 
things  in  the  paddock;  but  Brunt  never  heeded.  He 
changed  into  tweeds,  took  his  stick  and  went  down  the 
road,  still  shaking  with  fright,  and  muttering  over  and 
over  again — "God  ha'  mercy,  I'm  done  for!"  To  the 
best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief  he  spoke  the  truth. 

So  now  you  know  how  the  Broken-link  Handicap  was 
run  and  won.  Of  course  you  don't  believe  it.  You  would 
credit  anything  about  Russia's  designs  on  India,  or  the 
recommendations  of  the  Currency  Commission;  but  a 
little  bit  of  sober  fact  is  more  than  you  can  stand. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I25 


BEYOND  THE  PALE. 

Love  heeds  not  caste  nor  sleep  a  broken  bed.    I  went  in 
search  of  love  and  lost  myself. — Hindu  Proverb. 

A  man  should,  whatever  happens,  keep  to  his  own 
caste,  race  and  breed.  Let  the  White  go  to  the  White 
and  the  Black  to  the  Black.  Then,  whatever  trouble 
falls  is  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things — neither  sudden, 
alien  nor  unexpected. 

This  is  the  story  of  a  man  who  wilfully  stepped  be- 
yond the  safe  limits  of  decent  everyday  society,  and  paid 
for  it  heavily. 

He  knew  too  much  in  the  first  instance;  and  he  saw 
too  much  in  the  second.  He  took  too  deep  an  interest 
in  native  life;  but  he  will  never  do  so  again. 

Deep  away  in  the  heart  of  the  City,  behind  Jitha 
Megji's  bustee,  lies  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  which  ends  in  a 
dead-wall  pierced  by  one  grated  window.  At  the  head 
of  the  Gully  is  a  big  cowbyre,  and  the  walls  on  either 
side  of  the  Gully  are  without  windows.  Neither  Suchet 
Singh  nor  Gaur  Chand  approve  of  their  women-folk 
looking  into  the  world.  If  Durga  Charan  had  been  of 
their  opinion,  he  would  have  been  a  happier  man  to-day, 
and  little  Bisesa  would  have  been  able  to  knead  her  own 
bread.  Her  room  looked  out  through  the  grated  window 
into  the  narrow  dark  Gully  where  the  sun  never  came 
and  where  the  bufifaloes  wallowed  in  the  blue  slime.  She 
was  a  widow,  about  fifteen  years  old,  and  she  prayed  the 
Gods,  day  and  night,  to  send  her  a  lover;  for  she  did  not 
approve  of  living  alone. 

One  day,  the  man — Trejago  his  name  was — came  into 


126  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Amir  Nath's  Gully  on  an  aimless  wandering;  and,  after 
he  had  passed  the  buffaloes,  stumbled  over  a  big  heap  of 
cattle-food. 

Then  he  saw  that  the  Gully  ended  in  a  trap,  and  heard 
a  little  laugh  from  behind  the  grated  window.  It  was  a 
pretty  little  laugh,  and  Trejago,  knowing  that,  for  all 
practical  purposes,  the  old  Arabian  Nights  are  good 
guides,  went  forward  to  the  window,  and  whispered  that 
verse  of  'The  Love  Song  of  Har  Dyal"  which  begins: — 

Can  a  man  stand  upright  in  the  face  of  the  naked  Sun;  or  a 
Lover  in  the  Presence  of  his  Beloved? 

If  my  feet  fail  me,  0  Heart  of  my  Heart,  am  I  to  blame,  being 
blinded  by  the  glimpse  of  your  beauty? 

There  came  the  faint  tchink  of  a  woman's  bracelets 
from  behind  the  grating,  and  a  little  voice  went  on  with 
the  song  at  the  fifth  verse: — 

Alas!  alas!  Can  the  Moon  tell  the  Lotus  of  her  love  when  the 
Gate  of  Heaven  is  shut  and  the  clouds  gather  for  the  rains? 

They  have  taken  my  Beloved,  and  driven  her  with  the  pack- 
horses  to  the  North. 

There  are  iron  chains  on  the  feet  that  were  set  on  my  heart. 

Call  to  the  bowmen  to  make  ready 

The  voice  stopped  suddenly,  and  Trejago  walked  out 
of  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  wondering  who  in  the  world  could 
have  capped  "The  Love  Song  of  Har  Dyal"  so  neatly. 

Next  morning,  as  he  was  driving  to  office,  an  old 
woman  threw  a  packet  into  his  dogcart.  In  the  packet 
was  the  half  of  a  broken  glass-bangle,  one  flower  of  the 
blood-red  dhak,  a  pinch  of  bhusa  or  cattle-food,  and 
eleven  cardamoms.  That  packet  was  a  letter — not  a 
clumsy  compromising  letter,  but  an  innocent  unintelli- 
gible lover's  epistle. 

Trejago  knew  far  too  much  about  these  things,  as  I 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLa  1 27 

have  said.  No  Englishman  should  be  able  to  translate 
object-letters.  But  Trejago  spread  all  the  trifles  on  the 
lid  of  his  office-box  and  began  to  puzzle  them  out. 

A  broken  glass  bangle  stands  for  a  Hindu  widow  all 
India  over;  because,  when  her  husband  dies,  a  woman's 
bracelets  are  broken  on  her  wrists.  Trejago  saw  the  mean- 
ing of  the  little  bit  of  the  glass.  The  flower  of  the  dhak 
means  diversely  "desire,"  "come,"  "write,''  or  "danger," 
according  to  the  other  things  with  it.  One  cardamom 
means  "jealousy;"  but  when  any  article  is  duplicated  in 
an  object-letter,  it  loses  its  symbolic  meaning  and  stands 
merely  for  one  of  a  number  indicating  time,  or,  if  incense, 
curds,  or  safifron  be  sent  also,  place.  The  message  ran 
then — "A  widow — dhak  flower  and  bhusa, — at  eleven 
o'clock."  The  pinch  of  bhusa  enlightened  Trejago.  He 
saw — this  kind  of  letter  leaves  much  to  instinctive  knowl- 
edge— that  the  bhusa  referred  to  the  big  heap  of  cattle- 
food  over  which  he  had  fallen  in  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  and 
that  the  message  must  come  from  the  person  behind  the 
grating;  she  being  a  widow.  So  the  message  ran  then — 
"A  widow,  in  the  Gully  in  which  is  the  heap  of  bhusa,  de- 
sires you  to  come  at  eleven  o'clock." 

Trejago  threw  all  the  rubbish  into  the  fireplace  and 
laughed.  He  knew  that  men  in  the  East  do  not  make  love 
under  windows  at  eleven  in  the  forenoon,  nor  do  women 
fix  appointments  a  week  in  advance.  So  he  went,  that 
very  night  at  eleven,  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  clad  in  a 
boorka,  which  cloaks  a  man  as  well  as  a  woman.  Directly 
the  gongs  of  the  City  made  the  hour,  the  little  voice  be- 
hind the  grating  took  up  "The  Love  Song  of  Har  Dyal" 
at  the  verse  where  the  Panthan  girl  calls  upon  Har  Dyal 
to  return.  The  song  is  really  pretty  in  the  Vernacular.  In 
English  you  miss  the  wail  of  it.  It  runs  something  like 
this— 


128  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Alone  upon  the  housetops,  to  the  North 
I  turn  and  watch  the  lightning  in  the  sky, — 

The  glamour  of  thy  footsteps  in  the  North, 
Come  back  to  me,  Beloved,  or  I  die! 

Below  my  feet  the  still  bazar  is  laid 
Far,  far,  below  the  weary  camels  lie, — 

The  camels  and  the  captives  of  thy  raid. 
Come  back  to  me.  Beloved,  or  I  die! 

My  father's  wife  is  old  and  harsh  with  years, 
And  drudge  of  all  my  father's  house  am  I. — 

My  bread  is  sorrow  and  my  drink  is  tears. 
Come  back  to  me.  Beloved,  or  I  die! 

As  the  song  stopped,  Trejago  stepped  up  under  the 
grating  and  whispered — "I  am  here." 

Bisesa  was  good  to  look  upon. 

That  night  was  the  beginning  of  many  strange  things, 
and  of  a  double  life  so  wild  that  Trejago  to-day  some- 
times wonders  if  it  were  not  all  a  dream.  Bisesa,  or  her 
old  handmaiden  who  had  thrown  the  object-letter,  had 
detached  the  heavy  grating  from  the  brick-work  of  the 
wall;  so  that  the  window  slid  inside,  leaving  only  a  square 
of  raw  masonry  into  which  an  active  man  might  climb. 

In  the  day-time,  Trejago  drove  through  his  routine 
of  ofBce-work,  or  put  on  his  calling-clothes  and  called 
on  the  ladies  of  the  Station;  wondering  how  long  they 
would  know  him  if  they  knew  of  poor  little  Bisesa.  At 
night,  when  all  the  City  was  still,  came  the  walk  under 
the  evil-smelling  boorka,  the  patrol  through  Jitha  Megji's 
bustee,  the  quick  turn  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully  between 
the  sleeping  cattle  and  the  dead  walls,  and  then,  last  of 
all,  Bisesa,  and  the  deep,  even  breathing  of  the  old  woman 
who  slept  outside  the  door  of  the  bare  little  room  that 
Durga  Charan  allotted  to  his  sister's  daughter.  Who 
or  what  Durga  Charan  was.  Trejago  never  inquired;  and 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 29 

why  in  the  world  he  was  not  discovered  and  knifed  never 
occurred  to  him  till  his  madness  was  over,  and  Bisesa 
. . .  .But  this  comes  later. 

Bisesa  was  an  endless  delight  to  Trejago.  She  was 
as  ignorant  as  a  bird;  and  her  distorted  versions  of  the 
rumors  from  the  outside  world  that  had  reached  her  in 
her  room,  amused  Trejago  almost  as  much  as  her  lisp- 
ing attempts  to  pronounce  his  name — ''Chri.stopher." 
The  first  syllable  was  always  more  than  she  could  man- 
age, and  she  made  funny  little  gestures  with  her  roseleaf 
hands,  as  one  throwing  the  name  away,  and  then,  kneel- 
ing before  Trejago  asked  him,  exactly  as  an  English- 
woman would  do,  if  he  were  sure  he  loved  her.  Trejago 
swore  that  he  loved  her  more  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world.    Which  was  true. 

After  a  month  of  this  folly,  the  exigencies  of  his  other 
life  compelled  Trejago  to  be  especially  attentive  to  a  lady 
of  his  acquaintance.  You  may  take  it  for  a  fact  that  any- 
thing of  this  kind  is  not  only  noticed  and  discussed  by  a 
man's  own  race  but  by  some  hundred  and  fifty  natives 
as  well.  Trejago  had  to  walk  with  this  lady  and  talk  to 
her  at  the  Band-stand,  and  once  or  twice  to  drive  with 
her;  never  for  an  instant  dreaming  that  this  would  afifect 
his  dearer,  out-of-the-way  life.  But  the  news  flew,  in  the 
usual  mysterious  fashion,  from  mouth  to  mouth,  till  Bi- 
sesa's  duenna  heard  of  it  and  told  Bisesa.  The  child  was 
so  troubled  that  she  did  the  household  work  evilly,  and 
was  beaten  by  Durga  Charan's  wife  in  consequence. 

A  week  later,  Bisesa  taxed  Trejago  with  the  flirtation. 
She  understood  no  gradations  and  spoke  openly.  Tre- 
jago laughed  and  Bisesa  stamped  her  little  feet — little 
feet,  light  as  marigold  flowers,  that  could  lie  in  the  palm 
of  a  man's  one  hand. 

Much  that  is  written  about  Oriental  passion  and  im- 
8 


130  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

pulsiveness  is  exaggerated  and  compiled  at  second-hand, 
but  a  little  of  it  is  true;  and  when  an  Englishman  finds 
that  little,  it  is  quite  as  startling  as  any  passion  in  his  own 
proper  life.  Bisesa  raged  and  stormed,  and  finally  threat- 
ened to  kill  herself  if  Trejago  did  not  at  once  drop  the 
alien  Memsahib  who  had  come  between  them.  Trejago 
tried  to  explain,  and  to  show  her  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand these  things  from  a  Western  standpoint.  Bisesa 
drew  herself  up,  and  said  simply — 

"I  do  not.  I  know  only  this — it  is  not  good  that  I 
should  have  made  you  dearer  than  my  own  heart  to  me, 
Sahib.  You  are  an  Englishman.  I  am  only  a  black  girl." 
— she  was  fairer  than  bar-gold  in  the  Mint, — "and  the 
widow  of  a  black  man." 

Then  she  sobbed  and  said — "But  on  my  soul  and  my 
Mother's  soul,  I  love  you.  There  shall  no  harm  come 
to  you,  whatever  happens  to  me.'' 

Trejago  argued  with  the  child,  and  tried  to  soothe  her, 
but  she  seemed  quite  unreasonably  disturbed.  Nothing 
would  satisfy  her  save  that  all  relations  between  them 
should  end.  He  was  to  go  away  at  once.  And  he  went. 
As  he  dropped  out  of  the  window,  she  kissed  his  fore- 
head twice,  and  he  walked  home  wondering. 

A  week,  and  then  three  weeks,  passed  without  a  sign 
from  Bisesa.  Trejago,  thinking  that  the  rupture  had  last- 
ed quite  long  enough,  went  down  to  Amir  Nath's  Gully 
for  the  fifth  time  in  three  weeks,  hoping  that  his  rap  at 
the  sill  of  the  shifting  grating  would  be  answered.  He 
was  not  disappointed. 

There  was  a  young  moon,  and  one  stream  of  light  fell 
down  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  and  struck  the  grating 
which  was  drawn  away  as  he  knocked.  From  the  black 
dark,  Bisesa  held  out  her  arms  into  the  moonlight.    Both 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I3I 

hands  had  been  cut  off  at  the  wrists,  and  the  stumps 
were  nearly  healed. 

Then,  as  Bisesa  bowed  her  head  between  her  arms  and 
sobbed,  some  one  in  the  room  grunted  like  a  wild  beast, 
and  something  sharp — knife,  sword,  or  spear, — thrust  at 
Trejago  in  his  boorka.  The  stroke  missed  his  body,  but 
cut  into  one  of  the  muscles  of  the  groin,  and  he  limped 
slightly  from  the  wound  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

The  grating  went  into  its  place.  There  was  no  sign 
whatever  from  inside  the  house, — nothing  but  the  moon- 
light strip  on  the  high  wall,  and  the  blackness  of  Amir 
Nath's  Gully  behind. 

The  next  thing  Trejago  remembers,  after  raging  and 
shouting  like  a  madman  between  those  pitiless  walls,  is 
that  he  found  himself  near  the  river  as  the  dawn  was 
breaking,  threw  away  his  boorka  and  went  home  bare- 
headed. 


What  was  the  tragedy — whether  Bisesa  had,  in  a  fit  of 
causeless  despair,  told  everything,  or  the  intrigue  had 
been  discovered  and  she  tortured  to  tell;  whether  Durga 
Charan  knew  his  name  and  what  became  of  Bisesa — 
Trejago  does  not  know  to  this  day.  Something  horrible 
had  happened,  and  the  thought  of  what  it  must  have  been, 
comes  upon  Trejago  in  the  night  now  and  again,  and 
keeps  him  company  till  the  morning.  One  special  fea- 
ture of  the  case  is  that  he  does  not  know  where  lies  the 
front  of  Durga  Charan's  house.  It  may  open  on  to  a  court- 
yard common  to  two  or  more  houses,  or  it  may  lie  be- 
hind any  one  of  the  gates  of  Jitha  Megji's  bustee.  Tre- 
jago cannot  tell.  He  cannot  get  Bisesa — poor  little  Bi- 
sesa— back  again.  He  has  lost  her  in  the  City  where 
each  man's  house  is  as  guarded  and  as  unknowable  as 


132  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

the  grave;  and  the  grating  that  opens  into  Amir  Nath's 
Gully  has  been  walled  up. 

But  Trejago  pays  his  calls  regularly,  and  is  reckoned 
a  very  decent  sort  of  man. 

There  is  nothing  peculiar  about  him,  except  a  slight 
stiffness,  caused  by  a  riding-strain,  in  the  right  leg. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 33 


IN  ERROR. 

They  burnt  a  corpse  upon  the  aand — 

The  light  shone  out  afar; 
It  guided  home  the  plunging  boats 

That  beat  from  Zanzibar. 
Spirit  of  Fire,  where'er  Thy  altars  rise. 
Thou  art  Light  of  Guidance  to  our  eyes! 

— Salsette  Boat-Song. 

There  is  hope  for  a  man  who  gets  pubHcly  and  riot- 
ously drunk  more  often  than  he  ought  to  do;  but  there 
is  no  hope  for  the  man  who  drinks  secretly  and  alone 
in  his  own  house — the  man  who  is  never  seen  to  drink. 

This  is  a  rule;  so  there  must  be  an  exception  to  prove 
it.    Moriarty's  case  was  that  exception. 

He  was  a  Civil  Engineer,  and  the  Government,  very 
kindly,  put  him  quite  by  himself  in  an  otit-district,  with 
nobody  but  natives  to  talk  to  and  a  great  deal  of  work 
to  do.  He  did  his  work  well  in  the  four  years  he  was 
utterly  alone;  but  he  picked  up  the  vice  of  secret  and  soli- 
tary drinking,  and  came  up  out  of  the  wilderness 
more  old  and  worn  and  haggard  than  the  dead-alive  life 
had  any  right  to  make  him.  You  know  the  saying  that  a 
man  who  has  been  alone  in  the  jungle  for  more  than  a 
year  is  never  quite  sane  all  his  life  after.  People  credited 
Moriarty's  queerness  of  manner  and  moody  ways  to  the 
solitude,  and  said  that  it  showed  how  Government  spoilt 
the  futures  of  its  best  men.  Moriarty  had  built  himself 
the  plinth  of  a  very  good  reputation  in  the  bridge-dam- 
girder  line.  But  he  knew,  every  night  of  the  week,  that 
he  was  taking  steps  to  undermine  that  reputation  with  L. 
L.  L.  and  Christopher  and  little  nips  of  liqueurs,  and  filth 


134  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

of  that  kind.  He  had  a  sound  constitution  and  a  great 
brain,  or  else  he  would  have  broken  down  and  died  like 
a  sick  camel  in  the  district.  As  better  men  have  done  be- 
fore him. 

Government  ordered  him  to  Simla  after  he  had  come 
out  of  the  desert ;  and  he  went  up  meaning  to  try  for  a 
post  then  vacant.  That  season,  Mrs.  Reiver — perhaps 
you  will  remember  her — was  in  the  height  of  her  power, 
and  many  men  lay  under  her  yoke.  Everything  bad 
that  could  be  said  has  already  been  said  about  Mrs.  Reiv- 
er, in  another  tale.  Moriarty  was  heavily-built  and  hand- 
some, very  quiet  and  nervously  anxious  to  please  his 
neighbors  when  he  wasn't  sunk  in  a  brown  study.  He 
started  a  good  deal  at  sudden  noises  or  if  spoken  to  with- 
out warning;  and,  when  you  watched  him  drinking  his 
glass  of  water  at  dinner,  you  could  see  the  hand  shake 
a  little.  But  all  this  was  put  down  to  nervousness,  and 
the  quiet,  steady,  sip-sip-sip,  fill  and  sip-sip-sip  again  that 
went  on  in  his  own  room  when  he  was  by  himself,  was 
never  known.  Which  was  miraculous,  seeing  hov/  every- 
thing in  a  man's  private  life  is  public  property  in  India. 

Moriarty  was  drawn,  not  into  Mrs.  Reiver's  set,  be- 
cause they  were  not  his  sort,  but  into  the  power  of  Mrs. 
Reiver,  and  he  fell  down  in  front  of  her  and  made  a  god- 
dess of  her.  This  was  due  to  his  coming  fresh  out  of  the 
jungle  to  a  big  town.  He  could  not  scale  things  properly 
or  see  who  was  what. 

Because  Mrs.  Reiver  was  cold  and  hard,  he  said  she 
was  stately  and  dignified.  Because  she  had  no  brains, 
and  could  not  talk  cleverly,  he  said  she  was  reserved  and 
shy.  Mrs.  Reiver  shy!  Because  she  was  unworthy  of 
honor  or  reverence  from  any  one,  he  reverenced  her  from 
a  distance  and  dowered  her  with  all  the  virtues  in  the 
Bible  and  most  of  those  in  Shakespeare. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 35 

This  big,  dark,  abstracted  man  who  was  so  nervous 
when  a  pony  cantered  behind  him,  used  to  moon  in  the 
train  of  Mrs.  Reiver,  blushing  with  pleasure  when  she 
threw  a  word  or  two  his  way.  His  admiration  was  strict- 
ly platonic;  even  other  women  saw  and  admitted  this. 
He  did  not  move  out  in  Simla,  so  he  heard  nothing 
against  his  idol:  which  was  satisfactory.  Mrs.  Reiver 
took  no  special  notice  of  him,  beyond  seeing  that  he  was 
added  to  her  list  of  admirers,  and  going  for  a  walk  with 
him  now  and  then,  just  to  show  that  he  was  her  property, 
claimable  as  such.  Moriarty  must  have  done  most  of  the 
talking,  for  Mrs.  Reiver  couldn't  talk  much  to  a  man  of 
his  stamp;  and  the  little  she  said  could  not  have  been 
profitable.  What  Moriarty  believed  in,  as  he  had  good 
reason  to,  was  Mrs.  Reiver's  influence  over  him,  and,  in 
that  belief,  set  himself  seriously  to  try  to  do  away  with 
the  vice  that  only  he  himself  knew  of. 

His  experiences  while  he  was  fighting  with  it  must 
have  been  peculiar,  but  he  never  described  them.  Some- 
times he  would  hold  off  from  everything  except  water 
for  a  week.  Then,  on  a  rainy  night,  when  no  one  had 
asked  him  out  to  dinner,  and  there  was  a  big  fire  in  his 
room,  and  everything  comfortable,  he  would  sit  down 
and  make  a  big  night  of  it  by  adding  little  nip  to  little 
nip,  planning  big  schemes  of  reformation  meanwhile, 
until  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed  hopelessly  drunk.  He 
suffered  next  morning. 

One  night  the  big  crash  came.  He  was  troubled  in  his 
own  mind  over  his  attempts  to  make  himself  "worthy 
of  the  friendship"  of  Airs.  Reiver.  The  past  ten  days 
had  been  very  bad  ones,  and  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  he 
received  the  arrears  of  two  and  three-quarter  years  of 
sipping  in  one  attack  of  delirium  tremens  of  the  subdued 
kind;    beginning  with  suicidal  depression,  going  on  to 


136  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

fits  and  starts  and  hysteria,  and  ending  with  downright 
raving.  As  he  sat  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  or  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  picking  a  handkerchief  to  pieces, 
you  heard  what  poor  Moriarty  really  thought  of  Mrs. 
Reiver,  for  he  raved  about  her  and  his  own  fall  for  the 
most  part;  though  he  raveled  some  P.  W.  D.  accounts 
into  the  same  skein  of  thought.  He  talked  and  talked, 
and  talked  in  a  low  dry  whisper  to  himself,  and  there  was 
no  stopping  him.  He  seemed  to  know  that  there  was 
something  wrong,  and  twice  tried  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether and  confer  rationally  with  the  Doctor;  but  his 
mind  ran  out  of  control  at  once,  and  he  fell  back  to  a 
whisper  and  the  story  of  his  troubles.  It  is  terrible  to 
hear  a  big  man  babbling  like  a  child  of  all  that  a  man 
usually  locks  up,  and  puts  away  in  the  deep  of  his  heart. 
Moriarty  read  out  his  very  soul  for  the  benefit  of  any  one 
who  was  in  the  room  between  ten-thirty  that  night  and 
two-forty-five  next  morning. 

From  what  he  said,  one  gathered  how  immense  an 
influence  Mrs.  Reiver  held  over  him,  and  how  thor- 
oughly he  felt  for  his  own  lapse.  His  whisperings  can- 
not, of  course,  be  put  down  here;  but  they  were  very 
instructive — as  showing  the  errors  of  his  estimates. 

When  the  trouble  was  over,  and  his  few  acquaintances 
were  pitying  him  for  the  bad  attack  of  jungle-fever  that 
had  so  pulled  him  down,  Moriarty  swore  a  big  oath  to 
himself  and  went  abroad  again  with  Mrs.  Reiver  till  the 
end  of  the  season,  adoring  her  in  a  quiet  and  deferential 
way  as  an  angel  from  heaven.  Later  on,  he  took  to  riding 
— not  hacking,  but  honest  riding — which  was  good  proof 
that  he  was  improving,  and  you  could  slam  doors  behind 
him  without  his  jumping  to  his  feet  with  a  gasp.  That, 
again,  was  hopeful. 


*   PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I37 

How  he  kept  his  oath,  and  what  it  cost  him  in  the 
beginning  nobody  knows.  He  certainly  managed  to 
compass  the  hardest  thing  that  a  man  who  has  drunk 
heavily  can  do.  He  took  his  peg  and  wine  at  dinner; 
but  he  never  drank  alone,  and  never  let  what  he  drank 
have  the  least  hold  on  him. 

Once  he  told  a  bosom  friend  the  story  of  his  great 
trouble,  and  how  the  "influence  of  a  pure,  honest  woman, 
and  an  angel  as  well"  had  saved  him.  When  the  man 
— startled  at  anything  good  being  laid  to  Mrs.  Reiver's 
door — laughed,  it  cost  him  Moriarty's  friendship.  Mo- 
riarty,  who  is  married  now  to  a  woman  ten  thousand 
times  better  than  Mrs.  Reiver — a  woman  who  believes 
that  there  is  no  man  on  earth  as  good  and  clever  as  her 
husband — will  go  down  to  his  grave  vowing  and  protest- 
ing that  Mrs.  Reiver  saved  him  from  ruin  in  both 
worlds. 

That  she  knew  anything  of  Moriarty's  weakness  no- 
body believed  for  a  moment.  That  she  would  have  cut 
him  dead,  thrown  him  over,  and  acquainted  all  his  friends 
with  her  discovery,  if  she  had  known  of  it,  nobody  who 
knew  her  doubted  for  an  instant. 

Moriarty  thought  her  something  she  never  was,  and 
in  that  belief  saved  himself.  Which  was  just  as  good 
as  though  she  had  been  everything  that  he  had  imagined. 

But  the  question  is.  What  claim  will  Mrs.  Reiver 
have  to  the  credit  of  Moriarty's  salvation,  when  her  day 
of  reckoning  comes? 


138  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


A  BANK  FRAUD. 

He  drank  strong  waters  and  his  speech  was  coarse; 

He  purchased  raiment  and  forbore  to  pay; 
He  stuck  a  trusting  junior  with  a  horse, 

And  won  Gymkhanas  in  a  doubtful  way. 
Then,  'twixt  a  vice  and  folly,  turned  aside 
To  do  good  deeds  and  straight  to  cloak  them,  lied. 

— The  Mess  Room. 

If  Reggie  Burke  were  in  India  now,  he  would  resent 
this  tale  being  told;  but  as  he  is  in  Hongkong  and  won't 
see  it,  the  telling  is  safe.  He  was  the  man  who  worked 
the  big  fraud  on  the  Sind  and  Sialkote  Bank.  He  was 
manager  of  an  up-country  Branch,  and  a  sound,  prac- 
tical man  with  a  large  experience  of  native  loan  and  in- 
surance work.  He  could  combine  the  frivolities  of  ordi- 
nary life  with  his  work,  and  yet  do  well.  Reggie  Burke 
rode  anything  that  would  let  him  get  up,  danced  as 
neatly  as  he  rode,  and  was  wanted  for  every  sort  of 
amusement  in  the  Station. 

As  he  said  himself,  and  as  many  men  found  out  rather 
to  their  surprise,  there  were  two  Burkes,  both  very  much 
at  your  service.  "Reggie  Burke,"  between  four  and  ten, 
ready  for  anything  from  a  hot-weather  gymkhana  to  a 
riding-picnic,  and,  between  ten  and  four,  "Mr.  Reginald 
Burke,  Manager  of  the  Sind  and  Sialkote  Branch  Bank." 
You  might  play  polo  with  him  one  afternoon  and  hear 
him  express  his  opinions  when  a  man  crossed;  and  you 
might  call  on  him  next  morning  to  raise  a  two-thousand 
rupee  loan  on  a  five-hundred-pound  insurance  policy, 
eighty  pounds  paid  in  premiums.     He  would  recognize 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I39 

you,  but  you  would  have  some  trouble  in  recognizing 
him. 

The  Directors  of  the  Bank — it  had  its  headquarters  in 
Calcutta  and  its  General  Manager's  word  carried  weight 
with  the  Government — picked  their  men  well.  They  had 
tested  Reggie  up  to  a  fairly  severe  breaking-strain.  They 
trusted  him  just  as  much  as  Directors  ever  trust  Man- 
agers. You  must  see  for  yourself  whether  their  trust  was 
misplaced. 

Reggie's  Branch  was  in  a  big  Station,  and  worked 
with  the  usual  stafif — one  Manager,  one  Accountant,  both 
English,  a  Cashier,  and  a  horde  of  native  clerks;  besides 
the  Police  patrol  at  nights  outside.  The  bulk  of  its 
work,  for  it  was  in  a  thriving  district,  was  hoondi  and 
accommodation  of  all  kinds.  A  fool  has  no  grip  of  this 
sort  of  business;  and  a  clever  man  who  does  not  go  about 
among  his  clients,  and  know  more  than  a  little  of  their 
afifairs,  is  worse  than  a  fool.  Reggie  was  young-looking, 
clean-shaved,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  a  head  that 
nothing  short  of  a  gallon  of  the  Lrunners'  Maaeira  could 
make  any  impression  on. 

One  day,  at  a  big  dinner,  he  announced  casually  that 
the  Directors  had  shifted  on  to  him  a  Natural  Curiosity, 
from  England,  in  the  Accountant  line.  He  was  perfectly 
correct.  Mr.  Silas  Riley,  Accountant,  was  a  most 
curious  animal — a  long,  gawky,  rawboned  Yorkshire- 
man,  full  of  the  savage  self-conceit  that  blossoms  only 
in  the  best  county  in  England.  Arrogance  was  a  mild 
iword  for  the  mental  attitude  of  Mr.  S.  Riley.  He  had 
worked  himself  up,  after  seven  years,  to  a  Cashier's 
position  in  a  Huddersfield  Bank;  and  all  his  experience 
lay  among  the  factories  of  the  North.  Perhaps  he 
would  have  done  better  on  the  Bombay  side,  where  they 
are  happy  with  one-half  per  cent  profits,  and  money  is 


140  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

cheap.  He  was  useless  for  Upper  India  and  a  wheat 
Province,  where  a  man  wants  a  large  head  and  a  touch 
of  imagination  if  he  is  to  turn  out  a  satisfactory  balance- 
sheet. 

He  was  wonderfully  narrow-minded  in  business,  and, 
being  new  to  the  country,  had  no  notion  that  Indian 
banking  is  totally  distinct  from  Home  work.  Like  most 
clever  self-made  men,  he  had  much  simplicity  in  his  na- 
ture; and,  somehow  or  other,  had  construed  the  ordi- 
narily polite  terms  of  his  letter  of  engagement  into  a 
belief  that  the  Directors  had  chosen  him  on  account  of 
his  special  and  brilliant  talents,  and  that  they  set  great 
store  by  him.  This  notion  grew  and  crystallized;  thus 
adding  to  his  natural  North-country  conceit.  Further, 
he  was  delicate,  suffered  from  some  trouble  in  his  chest, 
and  was  short  in  his  temper. 

You  will  admit  that  Reggie  had  reason  to  call  his 
new  Accountant  a  Natural  Curiosity.  The  two  men 
failed  to  hit  it  ofif  at  all.  Riley  considered  Reggie  a 
wild,  feather-headed  idiot,  given  to  Heaven  only  knew 
what  dissipation  in  low  places  called  "Messes,"  and 
totally  unfit  for  the  serious  and  solemn  vocation  of 
banking.  He  could  never  get  over  Reggie's  look  of 
youth  and  "you-be-damned"  air;  and  he  couldn't  under- 
stand Reggie's  friends — clean-built,  careless  men  in  the 
Army — who  rode  over  to  big  Sunday  breakfasts  at  the 
Bank,  and  told  sultry  stories  till  Riley  got  up  and  left 
the  room.  Riley  was  always  showing  Reggie  how  the 
business  ought  to  be  conducted,  and  Reggie  had  more 
than  once  to  remind  him  that  seven  years'  limited  expe- 
rience between  Huddersfield  and  Beverley  did  not  qual- 
ify a  man  to  steer  a  big  up-country  business.  Then 
Riley  sulked,  and  referred  to  himself  as  a  pillar  of  the 
Bank    and   a   cherished    friend    of    the    Directors,    and 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I4I 

Reggie  tore  his  hair.  If  a  man's  English  subordinates 
fail  him  in  India,  he  comes  to  a  hard  time  indeed,  for 
native  help  has  strict  limitations.  In  the  winter  Riley 
went  sick  for  weeks  at  a  time  with  his  lung  complaint, 
and  this  threw  more  work  on  Reggie.  But  he  preferred 
it  to  the  everlasting  friction  when  Riley  was  well. 

One  of  the  Traveling  Inspectors  of  the  Bank  discov- 
ered these  collapses  and  reported  them  to  the  Directors. 
Now  Riley  had  been  foisted  on  the  Bank  by  an  M.  P., 
who  wanted  the  support  of  Riley's  father  who,  again, 
was  anxious  to  get  his  son  out  to  a  warmer  climate  be- 
cause of  those  lungs.  The  M.  P.  had  interest  in  the 
Bank;  but  one  of  the  Directors  wanted  to  advance  a 
nominee  of  his  own;  and,  after  Riley's  father  had  died, 
he  made  the  rest  of  the  Board  see  that  an  Accountant 
who  was  sick  for  half  the  year,  had  better  give  place 
to  a  healthy  man.  If  Riley  had  known  the  real  story  of 
his  appointment,  he  might  have  behaved  better;  but, 
knowing  nothing,  his  stretches  of  sickness  alternated 
with  restless,  persistent,  meddling  irritation  of  Reggie, 
and  all  the  hundred  ways  in  which  conceit  in  a  subor- 
dinate situation  can  find  play.  Reggie  used  to  call  him 
striking  and  hair-curling  names  behind  his  back  as  a 
relief  to  his  own  feelings;  but  he  never  abused  him  to 
his  face,  because  he  said,  "Riley  is  such  a  frail  beast 
that  half  of  his  loathsome  conceit  is  due  to  pains  in 
the  chest." 

Late  one  April,  Riley  went  very  sick  indeed.  The 
Doctor  punched  him  and  thumped  him,  and  told  him  he 
would  be  better  before  long.  Then  the  Doctor  went  to 
Reggie  and  said — "Do  you  know  how  sick  your  Ac- 
countant is?" — "No!"  said  Reggie — "The  worse  the 
better,  confound  him!     He's  a  clacking  nuisance  when 


142  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

he's  well.  I'll  let  you  take  away  the  Bank  Safe  if  you 
can  drug  him  silent  for  this  hot  weather." 

But  the  Doctor  did  not  laugh — "Man,  I'm  not  jok- 
ing," he  said.  "I'll  give  him  another  three  months  in 
his  bed  and  a  week  or  so  more  to  die  in.  On  my  honor 
and  reputation  that's  all  the  grace  he  has  in  this  world. 
Consumption  has  hold  of  him  to  the  marrow." 

Reggie's  face  changed  at  once  into  the  face  of  "Mr. 
Reginald  Burke,"  and  he  answered,  "What  can  I  do?" 
— ""Mothing,"  said  the  Doctor.  "For  all  practical  pur- 
poses the  man  is  dead  already.  Keep  him  quiet  and 
cheerful,  and  tell  him  he's  going  to  recover.  That's 
all.    I'll  look  after  him  to  the  end,  of  course." 

The  Doctor  went  away,  and  Reggie  sat  down  to 
open  the  evening  mail.  His  first  letter  was  one  from 
the  Directors,  intimating  for  his  information  that  Mr. 
Riley  was  to  resign,  under  a  month's  notice,  by  the 
terms  of  his  agreement,  telling  Reggie  that  their  letter 
to  Riley  would  follow,  and  advising  Reggie  of  the 
coming  of  a  new  Accountant,  a  man  whom  Reggie 
knew  and  liked. 

Reggie  lit  a  cheroot,  and,  before  he  had  finished 
smoking,  he  had  sketched  the  outline  of  a  fraud.  He 
put  away — burked — the  Directors'  letter,  and  went  in 
to  talk  to  Riley,  who  was  as  ungracious  as  usual,  and 
fretting  himself  over  the  way  the  Bank  would  run  dur- 
ing his  illness.  He  never  thou'ght  of  the  extra  work  on 
Reggie's  shoulders,  but  solely  of  the  damage  to  his  own 
prospects  of  advancement.  Then  Reggie  assured  him 
that  everything  would  be  well,  and  that  he,  Reggie, 
■would  confer  with  Riley  daily  on  the  management  of 
the  Bank.  Riley  was  a  little  soothed,  but  he  hinted  in 
as  many  words  that  he  did  not  think  much  of  Reggie's 
business  capacity.     Reggie  was  humble.     And  he  had 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I43 

letters  in  his  desk  from  the  Directors  that  a  Gilbarte  or 
a  Hardie  might  have  been  proud  of! 

The  days  passed  in  the  big  darkened  house,  and  the 
Directors'  letter  of  dismissal  to  Riley  came  and  was  put 
away  by  Reggie,  who,  every  evening,  brought  the 
books  to  Riley's  room,  and  showed  him  what  had  been 
going  forward,  while  Riley  snarled.  Reggie  did  his 
best  to  make  statements  pleasing  to  Riley,  but  the  Ac- 
countant was  sure  that  the  Bank  was  going  to  rack  and 
ruin  without  him.  In  June,  as  the  lying  in  bed  told  on 
his  spirit,  he  asked  whether  his  absence  had  been  noted 
by  the  Directors,  and  Reggie  said  that  they  had  written 
most  sympathetic  letters,  hoping  that  he  would  be  able 
to  resum.e  his  valuable  services  before  long.  He  showed 
Riley  the  letters;  and  Riley  said  that  the  Directors 
ought  to  have  written  to  him  direct.  A  few  days  later 
Reggie  opened  Riley's  mail  in  the  half-light  of  the  room, 
and  gave  him  the  sheet — not  the  envelope — of  a  letter 
to  Riley  from  the  Directors.  Riley  said  he  would  thank 
Reggie  not  to  interfere  with  his  private  papers,  spe- 
cially as  Reggie  knew  he  was  too  weak  to  open  his  own 
letters.     Reggie  apologized. 

Then  Riley's  mood  changed,  and  he  lectured  Reggie 
on  his  evil  ways:  his  horses  and  his  bad  friends.  "Of 
course,  lying  here,  on  my  back,  Mr.  Burke,  I  can't  keep 
you  straight;  but  when  I'm  well,  I  do  hope  you'll  pay 
some  heed  to  my  words."  Reggie,  who  had  dropped 
polo,  and  dinners,  and  tennis  and  all,  to  attend  to  Riley, 
said  that  he  was  penitent  and  settled  Riley's  head  on 
the  pillow  and  heard  him  fret  and  contradict  in  hard, 
dry,  hacking  whispers,  without  a  sign  of  impatience. 
This,  at  the  end  of  a  heavy  day's  office  work,  doing 
double  duty,  in  the  latter  half  of  June. 

When  the  new  Accountant   came,   Reggie  told  him 


144  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

the  facts  of  the  case,  and  announced  to  Riley  that  he  had 
a  guest  staying  with  him.  Riley  said  that  he  might  have 
had  more  consideration  than  to  entertain  his  "doubtful 
friends"  at  such  a  time.  Reggie  made  Carron,  the  new 
Accountant,  sleep  at  the  Club  in  consequence.  Carron's 
arrival  took  some  of  the  heavy  work  oflf  his  shoulders, 
and  he  had  time  to  attend  to  Riley's  exactions — to  ex- 
plain, soothe,  invent,  and  settle  and  re-settle  the  poor 
wretch  in  bed,  and  to  forge  complimentary  letters  from 
Calcutta.  At  the  end  of  the  first  month  Riley  wished  to 
send  some  money  home  to  his  mother.  Reggie  sent 
the  draft.  At  the  end  of  the  second  month  Riley's  salary 
came  in  just  the  same.  Reggie  paid  it  out  of  his  own 
pocket,  and,  with  it,  wrote  Riley  a  beautiful  letter  from 
the  Directors. 

Riley  was  very  ill  indeed,  but  the  flame  of  his  life 
burnt  unsteadily.  Now  and  then  he  would  be  cheerful 
and  confident  about  the  future,  sketching  plans  for 
going  Home  and  seeing  his  mother.  Reggie  listened 
patiently  when  the  office-work  was  over,  and  encour- 
aged him. 

At  other  times  Riley  insisted  on  Reggie  reading  the 
Bible  and  grim  "Methody"  tracts  to  him.  Out  of  these 
tracts  he  pointed  morals  directed  at  his  Manager.  But 
he  always  found  time  to  worry  Reggie  about  the  work- 
ing of  the  Bank,  and  to  show  him  where  the  weak  points 
lay. 

This  indoor,  sickroom  life  and  constant  strains  wore 
Reggie  down  a  good  deal,  and  shook  his  nerves,  and 
lowered  his  billiard  play  by  forty  points.  But  the  busi- 
ness of  the  Bank,  and  the  business  of  the  sickroom, 
had  to  go  on,  though  the  glass  was  ii6  degrees  in  the 
shade. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  month  Riley  was  sinking  fast, 
and  had  begun  to  realize  that  he  was  very  sick.     But 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I45 

the  conceit  that  made  him  worry  Reggie  kept  him  from 
believing  the  worst.  "He  wants  some  sort  of  mental 
stimulant  if  he  is  to  drag  on,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Keep 
him  interested  in  life  if  you  care  about  his  living."  So 
Riley,  contrary  to  all  the  laws  of  business  and  the 
finance,  received  a  25-per  cent  rise  of  salary  from  the 
Directors.  The  "mental  stimulant"  succeeded  beauti- 
fully. Riley  was  happy  and  cheerful,  and,  as  is  often 
the  case  in  consumption,  healthiest  in  mind  when  the 
body  was  weakest.  He  lingered  for  a  full  month,  snarl- 
ing and  fretting  about  the  Bank,  talking  of  the  future, 
hearing  the  Bible  read,  lecturing  Reggie  on  sin,  and 
wondering  when  he  would  be  able  to  move  abroad. 

But  at  the  end  of  September,  one  mercilessly  hot 
evening,  he  rose  up  in  his  bed  with  a  little  gasp,  and  said 
quickly  to  Reggie — "Mr.  Burke  I  am  going  to  die.  I 
know  it  in  myself.  My  chest  is  all  hollow  inside,  and 
there's  nothing  to  breathe  with.  To  the  best  of  my 
knowledge  I  have  done  nowt," — he  was  returning  to  the 
talk  of  his  boyhood — "to  lie  heavy  on  my  conscience. 
God  be  thanked,  I  have  been  preserved  from  the  grosser 
forms  of  sin;  and  I  counsel  you,  Mr.  Burke.     .     .     ." 

Here  his  voice  died  down,  and  Reggie  stooped  over 
him. 

"Send  my  salary  for  September  to  my  Mother  .  .  . 
done  great  things  with  the  Bank  if  I  had  been  spared 
.    .    .    mistaken  policy    ...    no  fault  of  mine.    .    .    ." 

Then  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and  died. 

Reggie  drew  the  sheet  over  Its  face,  and  went  out 
into  the  verandah,  with  his  last  "mental  stimulant" — a 
letter  of  condolence  and  sympathy  from  the  Directors — 
unused  in  his  pocket. 

"If    I'd    been    only    ten    minutes    earlier,"    thought 

Reggie,    "I    might    have    heartened    him    up    to    pull 

through  another  day." 
10 


146  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


TODS'  AMENDMENT. 

The  World  bath  set  its  heavy  yoke 
Upon  the  old  white-bearded  folk 

Who  strive  to  please  the  King. 
God's  mercy  is  upon  the  young, 
GrOd's  wisdom  in  the  baby  tongue 

That  fears  not  anything. 

—The  Parable  of  Chajju  Bhagat. 

Now  Tods'  Mamma  was  a  singularly  charming  woman, 
and  every  one  in  Simla  knew  Tods.  Most  men  had 
saved  him  from  death  on  occasions.  He  was  beyond 
his  ayah's  control  altogether,  and  periled  his  life  daily 
to  find  out  what  would  happen  if  you  pulled  a  Mountain 
Battery  mule's  tail.  He  was  an  utterly  fearless  young 
Pagan,  about  six  years  old,  and  the  only  baby  who  ever 
broke  the  holy  calm  of  the  Supreme  Legislative  Council. 

It  happened  this  way:  Tods'  pet  kid  got  loose,  and 
fled  up  the  hill,  ofif  the  Boileaugunge  Road,  Tods  after 
it,  until  it  burst  in  to  the  Viceregal  Lodge  lawn,  then 
attached  to  "Peterhofif."  The  Council  were  sitting  at 
the  time,  and  the  windows  were  open  because  it  was 
warm.  The  Red  Lancer  in  the  porch  told  Tods  to  go 
away;  but  Tods  knew  the  Red  Lancer  and  most  of  the 
Members  of  the  Council  personally.  Moreover,  he  had 
firm  hold  of  the  kid's  collar,  and  was  being  dragged  all 
across  the  flower-beds.  "Give  my  salaam  to  the  long 
Councillor  Sahib,  and  ask  him  to  help  me  take  Moti 
back!"  gasped  Tods.  The  Council  heard  the  noise 
through  the  open  windows;  and,  after  an  interval,  was 
seen  the  shocking  spectacle  of  a  Legal  Member  and  a 
Lieutenant-Governor  helping,  under  the  direct  patron- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I47 

age  of  a  Commander-in-Chief  and  a  Viceroy,  one  small 
and  very  dirty  boy  in  a  sailor's  suit  and  a  tangle  of 
brown  hair,  to  coerce  a  lively  and  rebellious  kid.  They 
headed  it  ofif  down  the  path  to  the  Mall,  and  Tods  went 
home  in  triumph  and  told  his  Mamma  that  all  the  Coun- 
cillor Sahibs  had  been  helping  him  to  catch  Moti. 
Whereat  his  Mamma  smacked  Tods  for  interfering  with 
the  administration  of  the  Empire;  but  Tods  met  the 
Legal  Member  the  next  day,  and  told  him  in  confidence 
that  if  the  Legal  Member  ever  wanted  to  catch  a  goat, 
he,  Tods,  would  give  him  all  the  help  in  his  power. 
"Thank  you,  Tods,"  said  the  Legal  Member. 

Tods  was  the  idol  of  some  eighty  jhampanis,  and  half 
as  many  saises.  He  saluted  them  all  as  "O  Brother." 
It  never  entered  his  head  that  any  living  human  being 
could  disobey  his  orders;  and  he  was  the  bufifer  between 
the  servants  and  his  Mamma's  wrath.  The  working  of 
that  household  turned  on  Tods,  who  was  adored  by  every 
one  from  the  dhoby  to  the  dog-boy.  Even  Futteh  Khan, 
the  villainous  loafer  kbit  from  Mussoorie,  shirked  risk- 
ing Tods'  displeasure  for  fear  his  co-mates  should  look 
down  on  him. 

So  Tods  had  honor  in  the  land  from  Boileaugunge  to 
Chota  Simla,  and  ruled  justly  according  to  nis  lights.  Of 
course,  he  spoke  Urdu,  but  he  had  also  mastered  many 
queer  side-speeches  like  the  chotee  bolee  of  the  women, 
and  held  grave  converse  with  shopkeepers  and  Hill- 
coolies  alike.  He  was  precocious  for  his  age,  and  his 
mixing  with  natives  had  taught  him  some  of  the  more 
bitter  truths  of  life:  the  meanness  and  the  sordidness  of 
it.  He  used,  over  his  bread  and  milk,  to  deliver  solemn 
and  serious  aphorisms,  translated  from  the  vernacular 
into  the  English,  that  made  his  Mamma  jump  and  vow 
that  Tods  must  go  Home  next  hot  weather. 


148  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Just  when  Tods  was  in  the  bloom  of  his  power,  the 
Supreme  Legislature  were  hacking  out  a  Bill  for  the 
Sub-Montane  Tracts,  a  revision  of  the  then  Act,  smaller 
than  the  Punjab  Land  Bill,  but  affecting  a  few  hundred 
thousand  people  none  the  less.  The  Legal  Member  had 
built,  and  bolstered,  and  embroidered,  and  amended  that 
Bill,  till  it  looked  beautiful  on  paper.  Then  the  Coun- 
cil began  to  settle  what  they  called  the  "minor  details." 
As  if  any  Englishman  legislating  for  natives  knows 
enough  to  know  which  are  the  minor  and  which 
are  the  major  points,  from  the  native  point  of 
view,  of  any  measure!  That  Bill  was  a  triumph 
of  "safeguarding  the  interests  of  the  tenant"  One  clause 
provided  that  land  should  not  be  leased  on  longer  terms 
than  five  years  at  a  stretch ;  because,  if  the  landlord  had 
a  tenant  bound  down  for,  say,  twenty  years,  he  would 
squeeze  the  very  life  out  of  him.  The  notion  was  to 
keep  up  a  stream  of  independent  cultivators  in  the  Sub- 
Montane  Tracts;  and  ethnologically  and  politically  the 
notion  was  correct.  The  only  drawback  was  that  it  was 
altogether  wrong.  A  native's  life  in  India  implies  the 
life  of  his  son.  Wherefore,  you  cannot  legislate  for  one 
generation  at  a  time.  You  must  consider  the  next  from 
the  native  point  of  view.  Curiously  enough,  the  native 
now  and  then,  and  in  Northern  India  more  particularly, 
hates  being  over-protected  against  himself.  There  was 
a  Naga  village  once,  where  they  lived  on  dead  and  buried 
Commissariat  mules.     .     .     .     But  that  is  another  story. 

For  many  reasons,  to  be  explained  later,  the  people 
concerned  objected  to  the  Bill.  The  Native  Member  in 
Council  knew  as  much  about  Punjabis  as  he  knew  about 
Charing  Cross.  He  had  said  in  Calcutta  that  "the  Bill 
was  entirely  in  accord  with  the  desires  of  that  large  and 
important  class,  the  cultivators;"  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 


PLAIN  TAl.ES  FROM  THE  HIL.LS.  I49 

The  Legal  Member's  knowledge  of  natives  was  limited 
to  English-speaking  Durbaris,  and  his  own  red  chapras- 
sis,  the  Sub-Montane  Tracts  concerned  no  one  in  par- 
ticular, the  Deputy  Commissioners  were  a  good  deal  too 
driven  to  make  representations,  and  the  measure  was  one 
which  dealt  with  small  land-holders  only.  Nevertheless, 
the  Legal  Member  prayed  that  it  might  be  correct,  for  he 
was  a  nervously  conscientious  man.  He  did  not  know 
that  no  man  can  tell  what  natives  think  unless  he  mixes 
with  them  with  the  varnish  ofi.  And  not  always  then. 
But  he  did  the  best  he  knew.  And  the  measure  came 
up  to  the  Supreme  Council  for  the  final  touches,  while 
Tods  patrolled  the  Burra  Simla  Bazar  in  his  morning 
rides,  and  played  with  the  monkey  belonging  to  Ditta 
Mull,  the  bunnia,  and  listened,  as  a  child  listens,  to  all 
the  stray  talk  about  this  new  freak  of  the  Lord  Sahib's. 

One  day  there  was  a  dinner-party,  at  the  house  of 
Tods'  Mamma,  and  the  Legal  Member  came.  Tods  was 
in  bed,  but  he  kept  awake  till  he  heard  the  bursts  of 
laughter  from  the  men  over  the  cofTee.  Then  he  pad- 
dled out  in  his  little  red  flannel  dressing-gown  and  his 
night-suit  and  took  refuge  by  the  side  of  his  father,  know- 
ing that  he  would  not  be  sent  back.  "See  the  miseries 
of  having  a  family!"  said  Tods'  father,  giving  Tods  three 
prunes,  some  water  in  a  glass  that  had  been  used  for 
claret,  and  telling  him  to  sit  still.  Tods  sucked  the 
prunes  slowly,  knowing  that  he  would  have  to  go  when 
they  were  finished,  and  sipped  the  pink  water  like  a  man 
of  the  world,  as  he  listened  to  the  conversation.  Pres- 
ently, the  Legal  Member,  talking  "shop"  to  the  Head  of 
a  Department,  mentioned  his  Bill  by  its  full  name — "The 
Sub-Montane  Tracts  Ryotwary  Revised  Enactment." 
Tods  caught  the  one  native  word  and  lifting  up  his  small 
voice  said — 


150  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  that!  Has  it  been  murramutted 
yet,  Councillor  Sahib?" 

"How  much?"  said  the  Legal  Member. 

"Murramutted — mended. — Put  theek,  you  know — 
made  nice  to  please  Ditta  Mull!" 

The  Legal  Member  left  his  place  and  moved  up  next 
to  Tods. 

"What  do  you  know  about  ryotwari,  little  man?"  he 
said. 

"I'm  not  a  little  man,  I'm  Tods,  and  I  know  all  about 
it.  Ditta  Mull,  and  Choga  Lall,  and  Amir  Nath,  and — 
oh,  lakhs  of  my  friends  tell  me  about  it  in  the  bazars 
when  I  talk  to  them." 

"Oh,  they  do — do  they?    What  do  they  say,  Tods?" 

Tods  tucked  his  feet  under  his  red  flannel  dressing- 
gown  and  said — "I  must  fink.'' 

The  Legal  Member  waited  patiently.  Then  Tods  with 
infinite  compassion — 

"You  don't  speak  my  talk,  do  you.  Councillor  Sahib?" 

"No;  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  do  not,"  said  the  Legal 
Member. 

"Very  well,"  said  Tods,  "I  must  fink  in  English." 

He  spent  a  minute  putting  his  ideas  in  order,  and 
began  very  slowly,  translating  in  his  mind  from  the  ver- 
nacular to  English,  as  many  Anglo-Indian  children  do. 
You  must  remember  that  the  Legal  Member  helped  him 
on  by  questions  when  he  halted,  for  Tods  was  not  equal 
to  the  sustained  flight  of  oratory  that  follows: 

"Ditta  Mull  says,  'This  thing  is  the  talk  of  a  child,  and 
was  made  up  by  fools.'  But  I  don't  think  you  are  a  fool, 
Councillor  Sahib,"  said  Tods  hastily.  "You  caught  my 
goat.  This  is  what  Ditta  Mull  says — T  am  not  a  fool, 
and  why  should  the  Sirkar  say  I  am  a  child?  I  can  see 
if  the  land  is  good  and  if  the  landlord  is  good.    If  I  am 


^> 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I5I 

a  fool,  the  sin  is  upon  my  own  head.  For  five  years  I 
take  my  ground  for  which  I  have  saved  money,  and  a  wife 
I  take  too,  and  a  Httle  son  is  born.'  Ditta  Mull  has 
one  daughter  now,  but  he  says  he  will  have  a  son  soon. 
And  he  says,  'At  the  end  of  five  years,  by  this  new  bundo- 
bust,  I  must  go.  If  I  do  not  go,  I  must  get  fresh  seals 
and  takkus-stamps  on  the  papers,  perhaps  in  the  middle 
of  the  harvest,  and  to  go  to  the  law-courts  once  is  wis- 
dom, but  to  go  twice  is  Jehannum.'  That  is  quite  true," 
explained  Tods  gravely.  "All  my  friends  say  so.  And 
Ditta  Mull  says,  'Always  fresh  takkus  and  paying  money 
to  vakils  and  chaprassis  and  law-courts  every  five  years, 
or  else  the  landlord  makes  me  go.  Why  do  I  want  to  go? 
Am  I  a  fool?  If  I  am  a  fool  and  do  not  know,  after  forty 
years,  good  land  when  I  see  it,  let  me  die!  But  if  the 
new  bundobust  says  for  fifteen  years,  that  it  is  good  and 
wise.  My  little  son  is  a  man,  and  I  am  burnt,  and  he 
takes  the  ground  or  another  ground,  paying  only  once 
for  the  takkus-stamps  on  the  papers,  and  his  little  son  is 
born,  and  at  the  end  of  fifteen  years  is  a  man  too.  But 
what  profit  is  there  in  five  years  and  fresh  papers?  Noth- 
ing but  dikh,  trouble,  dikh.  We  are  not  young  men 
who  take  these  lands,  but  old  ones — not  farmers,  but 
tradesmen  with  a  little  money — and  for  fifteen  years  we 
shall  have  peace.  Nor  are  we  children  that  the  Sirkar 
should  treat  us  so.'  " 

Here  Tods  stopped  short,  for  the  whole  table  were 
listening.    The  Legal  Member  said  to  Tods,  "Is  that  all?" 

"All  I  can  remember,"  said  Tods.  "But  you  should 
see  Ditta  Mull's  big  monkey.  It's  just  like  a  Councillor 
Sahib." 

"Tods!    Go  to  bed,"  said  his  father. 

Tods  gathered  up  his  dressing-gown  tail  and  departed. 

The  Legal  Member  brought  his  hand  down  on  the 


152  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

table  with  a  crash — "By  Jove!"  said  the  Legal  Member, 
"I  believe  the  boy  is  right.  The  short  tenure  is  the  weak 
point." 

He  left  early,  thinking  over  what  Tods  had  said.  Now, 
it  was  obviously  impossible  for  the  Legal  Member  to  play 
with  a  bunnia's  monkey,  by  way  of  getting  understand- 
ing; but  he  did  better.  He  made  inquiries,  always  bear- 
ing in  mind  the  fact  that  the  real  native — not  the  hybrid. 
University-trained  mule — is  as  timid  as  a  colt,  and,  little 
by  little,  he  coaxed  some  of  the  men  whom  the  measure 
concerned  most  intimately  to  give  in  their  views,  which 
squared  very  closely  with  Tods'  evidence. 

So  the  Bill  was  amended  in  that  clause;  and  the  Legal 
Member  was  filled  with  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  Native 
Members  represent  very  little  except  the  Orders  they 
carry  on  their  bosoms.  But  he  put  the  thought  from  him 
as  illiberal.    He  was  a  most  Liberal  man. 

After  a  time,  the  news  spread  through  the  bazars  that 
Tods  had  got  the  Bill  recast  in  the  tenure-clause,  and  if 
Tod's  Mamma  had  not  interfered,  Tods  would  have  made 
himself  sick  on  the  baskets  of  fruit  and  pistachio  nuts 
and  Cabuli  grapes  and  almonds  that  crowded  the  veran- 
dah. Till  he  went  Home,  Tods  ranked  some  few  degrees 
before  the  Viceroy  in  popular  estimation.  But  for  the 
little  life  of  him  Tods  could  not  understand  why. 

In  the  Legal  Member's  private-paper-box  still  lies  the 
rough  draft  of  the  Sub-Montanc  Tracts  Ryotwary  Re- 
vised Enactment;  and,  opposite  the  twenty-second 
clause,  penciled  in  blue  chalk,  and  signed  by  the  Legal 
Member,  are  the  words,  "Tods'  Amendment" 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 53 


IN  THE  PRIDE  OF  HIS  YOUTH. 

'Stopped  in  the  straight  when  the  race  was  his  own! 
Looli  at  him  cutting  it — cur  to  the  bone!' 
'Asli,  ere  the  youngster  be  rated  and  chidden, 
What  did  he  carry  and  how  was  he  ridden? 
Maybe  they  used  him  too  much  at  the  start; 
Maybe  Fate's  weight-cloths  are  brealiing  his  heart.' 

— Life's   Handicap. 

When  I  was  telling  you  of  the  joke  that  The  Worm 
played  off  on  the  Senior  Subaltern,  I  promised  a  some- 
what similar  tale,  but  with  all  the  jest  left  out.  This  is 
that  tale. 

Dicky  Hatt  was  kidnapped  in  his  early,  early  youth — 
neither  by  landlady's  daughter,  housemaid,  barmaid,  nor 
cook,  but  by  a  girl  so  nearly  of  his  own  caste  that  only 
a  woman  could  have  said  she  was  just  the  least  little  bit 
in  the  world  below  it.  This  happened  a  month  before 
he  came  out  to  India,  and  five  days  after  his  one-and- 
twentieth  birthday.  The  girl  was  nineteen — six  years 
older  than  Dicky  in  the  things  of  this  world,  that  is  to 
say — and,  for  the  time,  twice  as  foolish  as  he. 

Excepting,  always,  falling  off  a  horse  there  is  nothing 
more  fatally  easy  than  marriage  before  the  Registrar. 
The  ceremony  costs  less  than  fifty  shillings,  and  is  re- 
markably like  walking  into  a  pawn-shop.  After  the 
declarations  of  residence  have  been  put  in,  four  minutes 
will  cover  the  rest  of  the  proceedings — fees,  attestation, 
and  all.  Then  the  Registrar  slides  the  blotting-pad  over 
the  names,  and  says  grimly  with  his  pen  between  his 
teeth,  "Now  you're  man  and  wife;"  and  the  couple  walk 


154  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

out  into  the  street  feeling  as  if  something  were  horribly 
illegal  somewhere. 

But  that  ceremony  holds  and  can  drag  a  man  to  his 
undoing  just  as  thoroughly  as  the  "long  as  ye  both 
shall  live"  curse  from  the  altar-rails,  with  the  brides- 
maids giggling  behind,  and  "The  Voice  that  breathed 
o'er  Eden"  lifting  the  roof  off.  In  this  manner  was  Dicky 
Hatt  kidnapped,  and  he  considered  it  vastly  fine,  for 
he  had  received  an  appointment  in  India  which  carried 
a  magnificent  salary  from  the  Home  point  of  view.  The 
marriage  was  to  be  kept  secret  for  a  year.  Then  Mrs. 
Dicky  Hatt  was  to  come  out,  and  the  rest  of  life  was 
to  be  a  glorious  golden  mist.  That  was  how  they 
sketched  it  under  the  Addison  Road  Station  lamps;  and, 
after  one  short  month,  came  Gravesend  and  Dicky  steam- 
ing out  to  his  new  life,  and  the  girl  crying  in  a  thirty- 
shillings  a  week  bed-and-living-room,  in  a  back-street 
ofif  Montpelier  Square  near  the  Knightsbridge  Barracks. 

But  the  country  that  Dicky  came  to  was  a  hard  land 
where  men  of  twenty-one  were  reckoned  very  small  boys 
indeed,  and  life  was  expensive.  The  salary  that  loomed 
so  large  six  thousand  miles  away  did  not  go  far.  Par- 
ticularly when  Dicky  divided  it  by  two,  and  remitted 
more  than  the  fair  half,  at  i-6  ^,  to  Montpelier  Square. 
One  hundred  and  thirty-five  rupees  out  of  three  hundred 
and  thirty  is  not  much  to  live  on;  but  it  was  absurd  to 
suppose  that  Mrs.  Hatt  could  exist  for  ever  on  the  £20 
held  back  by  Dicky  from  his  outfit  allowance.  Dicky 
saw  this  and  remitted  at  once;  always  remembering  that 
Rs.700  were  to  be  paid,  twelve  months  later,  for  a  first- 
class  passage  out  for  a  lady.  When  you  add  to  these 
trifling  details  the  natural  instincts  of  a  boy  beginning  a 
new  life  in  a  new  country  and  longing  to  go  about  and 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  155 

enjoy  himself,  and  the  necessity  for  grappling  with 
strange  work — which,  properly  speaking-,  should  take 
up  a  boy's  undivided  attention — you  will  see  that  Dicky 
started  handicapped.  He  saw  it  himself  for  a  breath 
or  two-;  but  he  did  not  guess  the  full  beauty  of  his 
future. 

As  the  hot  weather  began,  the  shackles  settled  on 
him  and  ate  into  his  flesh.  First  would  come  letters — 
big,  crossed,  seven-sheet  letters — from  his  wife,  telling 
him  how  she  longed  to  see  him,  and  what  a  Heaven  upon 
earth  would  be  their  property  when  they  met.  Then 
some  boy  of  the  chummery  wherein  Dicky  lodged  would 
pound  on  the  door  of  his  bare  little  room  and  tell  him  to 
come  out  to  look  at  a  pony — the  very  thing  to  suit  him. 
Dicky  could  not  afford  ponies.  He  had  to  explain  this. 
Dicky  could  not  afford  living  in  the  chummery,  modest 
as  it  was.  He  had  to  explain  this  before  he  moved  to  a 
single  room  next  the  office  where  he  w'orked  all  day. 
He  kept  house  on  a  green  oil-cloth  table-cover,  one 
chair,  one  bedstead,  one  photograph,  one  tooth-glass 
very  strong  and  thick,  a  seven-rupee  eight-anna  filter, 
and  messing  by  contract  at  thirty-seven  rupees  a  month. 
Which  last  item  was  extortion.  He  had  no  punkah,  for 
a  punkah  costs  fifteen  rupees  a  month;  but  he  slept  on 
the  roof  of  the  office  with  all  his  wife's  letters  under  his 
pillow.  Now  and  again  he  was  asked  out  to  dinner, 
where  he  got  both  a  punkah  and  an  iced  drink.  But  this 
was  seldom,  for  people  objected  to  recognizing  a  boy 
who  had  evidently  the  instincts  of  a  Scotch  tallow- 
chandler,  and  who  lived  in  such  a  nasty  fashion.  Dicky 
could  not  subscribe  to  any  amusement,  so  he  found  no 
amusement  except  the  pleasure  of  turning  over  his  Bank- 
book  and    reading   what    it   said   about    "loans   on    ap- 


156  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

proved  security."  That  cost  nothing.  He  remitted 
through  a  Bombay  Bank,  by  the  way,  and  the  Station 
knew  nothing  of  his  private  affairs. 

Every  month  he  sent  Home  all  he  could  possibly  spare 
for  his  wife  and  for  another  reason  which  was  expected 
to  explain  itself  shortly,  and  would  require  more  money. 
About  this  time  Dicky  was  overtaken  with  the  nerv- 
ous, haunting  fear  that  besets  married  men  when  they 
are  out  of  sorts.  He  had  no  pension  to  look  to.  What 
if  he  should  die  suddenly,  and  leave  his  wife  unpro- 
vided for?  The  thought  used  to  lay  hold  of  him  in  the 
still,  hot  nights  on  the  roof,  till  the  shaking  of  his  heart 
made  him  think  that  he  was  going  to  die  then  and  there 
of  heart-disease.  Now  this  is  a  frame  of  mind  which  no 
boy  has  a  right  to  know.  It  is  a  strong  man's  trouble; 
but,  coming  when  it  did,  it  nearly  drove  poor  punkah- 
less,  perspiring  Dicky  Hatt  mad.  He  could  tell  no  one 
about  it. 

A  certain  amount  of  "screw"  is  as  necessary  for  a  man 
as  for  a  billiard-ball.  It  makes  them  both  do  wonder- 
ful things.  Dicky  needed  money  badly,  and  he  worked 
for  it  like  a  horse.  But,  naturally,  the  men  who  owned 
him  knew  that  a  boy  can  live  very  comfortably  on  a  cer- 
tain income — pay  in  India  is  a  matter  of  age  not  merit, 
you  see,  and,  if  their  particular  boy  wished  to  work  like 
two  boys,  Business  forbid  that  they  should  stop  him. 
But  Business  forbid  tliat  they  should  give  him  an  in- 
crease of  pay  at  his  present  ridiculously  immature  age. 
So  Dicky  won  certain  rises  of  salary — ample  for  a  boy — 
not  enough  for  a  wife  and  a  child — certainly  too  little  for 
the  seven-hundred  rupee  passage  that  he  and  Mrs.  Hatt 
had  discussed  so  lightly  once  upon  a  time.  And  with  this 
he  was  forced  to  be  content. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  157 

Somehow,  all  his  money  seemed  to  fade  away  in  Home 
drafts  and  the  crushing  Exchange,  and  the  tone  of  the 
Home  letters  changed  and  grew  querulous.  "Why 
wouldn't  Dicky  have  his  wife  and  the  baby  out?  Surely 
he  had  a  salary — a  fine  salary — and  it  was  too  bad  of 
him  to  enjoy  himself  in  India.  But  would  he — could  he 
— make  the  next  draft  a  little  more  elastic?"  Here  fol- 
lowed a  list  of  baby's  kit,  as  long  as  a  Parsee's  bill.  Then 
Dicky,  whose  heart  yearned  to  his  wife  and  the  little  son 
he  had  never  seen — which,  again,  is  a  feeling  no  boy  is 
entitled  to — enlarged  the  draft  and  wrote  queer  half- 
boy,  half-man  letters,  saying  that  life  was  not  so  en- 
joyable after  all  and  would  the  little  wife  wait  yet  a  little 
longer?  But  the  little  wife,  however  much  she  approved 
of  money,  objected  to  waiting,  and  there  was  a  strange, 
hard  sort  of  ring  in  her  letters  that  Dicky  didn't  under- 
stand.    How  could  he,  poor  boy? 

Later  on  still — just  as  Dicky  had  been  told — apropos 
of  another  youngster  who  had  "made  a  fool  of  himself" 
as  the  saying  is — that  matrimony  would  not  only  ruin 
his  further  chances  of  advancement,  but  would  lose  him 
his  present  appointment — came  the  news  that  the  baby, 
his  OAvn  little,  little  son,  had  died  and,  behind  this,  forty 
lines  of  an  angry  woman's  scrawl,  saying  the  death 
might  have  been  averted  if  certain  things,  all  costing 
money,  had  been  done,  or  if  the  mother  and  the  baby 
had  been  with  Dicky.  The  letter  struck  at  Dicky's 
naked  heart;  but,  not  being  officially  entitled  to  a  baby, 
he  could  show  no  sign  of  trouble. 

How  Dicky  won  through  the  next  four  months,  and 
what  hope  he  kept  alight  to  force  him  into  his  work, 
no  one  dare  say.  He  pounded  on,  the  seven-hundred- 
rupee  passage  as  far  away  as  ever,  and  his  style  of  living 


158  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

unchanged,  except  when  he  launched  into  a  new  filter. 
There  was  the  strain  of  his  office-work,  and  the  strain  of 
his  remittances,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  boy's  death, 
which  touched  the  boy  more,  perhaps,  than  it  would 
have  touched  a  mian ;  and,  beyond  all,  the  enduring  strain 
of  his  daily  life.  Gray-headed  seniors  who  approved  of 
his  thrift  and  his  fashion  of  denying  himself  everything 
pleasant,  reminded  him  of  the  old  saw  that  says — 

'If  a  youth  would  be  distinguished  in  his  art,  art,  art. 

He  must  keep  the  girls  away  from  his  heart,  heart,  heart.' 

And  Dicky,  who  fancied  he  had  been  through  every 
trouble  that  a  man  is  permitted  to  know,  had  to  laugh 
and  agree;  with  the  last  line  of  his  balanced  Bank-book 
jingling  in  his  head  day  and  night. 

But  he  had  one  more  sorrow  to  digest  before  the  end. 
There  arrived  a  letter  from  the  little  wife — the  natural 
sequence  of  the  others  if  Dicky  had  only  known  it — 
and  the  burden  of  that  letter  was  "gone  with  a  hand- 
somer man  than  you."  It  was  a  rather  curious  produc- 
tion, without  stops,  something  like  this — "She  was  not 
going  to  wait  for  ever  and  the  baby  was  dead  and  Dicky 
was  only  a  boy  and  he  would  never  set  eyes  on  her  again 
and  why  hadn't  he  waved  his  handkerchief  to  her  when 
he  left  Gravesend  and  God  was  her  judge  she  was  a 
wicked  woman  but  Dicky  was  worse  enjoying  himself 
in  India  and  this  other  man  loved  the  ground  she  trod 
on  and  would  Dicky  ever  forgive  her  for  she  would  never 
forgive  Dicky;  and  there  was  no  address  to  write  to." 

Instead  of  thanking  his  stars  that  he  was  free,  Dicky 
discovered  exactly  how  an  injured  husband  feels — again, 
not  at  all  the  knowledge  to  which  a  boy  is  entitled — for 
his  mind  went  back  to  his  wife  as  he  remembered  her  in 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 59 

the  thirty-shilling  "suite"  in  Montpelier  Square,  when 
the  dawn  of  his  last  morning  in  England  was  breaking, 
and  she  was  crying  in  the  bed.  Whereat  he  rolled  about 
on  his  bed  and  bit  his  fingers.  He  never  stopped  to 
think  whether,  if  he  had  met  Mrs.  Hatt  after  those  two 
years,  he  would  have  discovered  that  he  and  she  had 
grown  quite  different  and  new  persons.  This,  theoreti- 
cally, he  ought  to  have  done.  He  spent  the  night  after 
the  English  Mail  came  in  rather  severe  pain. 

Next  morning,  Dicky  Hatt  felt  disinclined  to  work. 
He  argued  that  he  had  missed  the  pleasure  of  youth. 
He  was  tired,  and  he  had  tasted  all  the  sorrow  in  life  be- 
fore three-and-twenty.  His  Honor  was  gone — that  was 
the  man;  and  now  he,  too,  would  go  to  the  Devil — that 
was  the  boy  in  him.  So  he  put  his  head  down  on  the 
green  oil-cloth  tablecover,  and  wept  before  resigning 
his  post,  and  all  it  offered. 

But  the  reward  of  his  services  came.  He  was  given 
three  days  to  reconsider  himself,  and  the  Head  of  the 
establishment,  after  some  telegraphings,  said  that  it 
was  a  most  unusual  step,  but,  in  view  of  the  ability  that 
Mr.  Hatt  had  displayed  at  such  and  such  a  time,  at 
such  and  such  junctures,  he  was  in  a  position  to  ofifer 
him  an  infinitely  superior  post — first  on  probation  and 
later,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  on  confirmation. 
"And  how  much  does  the  post  carry?"  said  Dicky.  "Six 
hundred  and  fifty  rupees,"  said  the  Head  slowly,  expect- 
ing to  see  the  young  man  sink  with  gratitude  and  joy. 

And  it  came  then!  The  seven-hundred-rupee-passage, 
and  enough  to  have  saved  the  wife,  and  the  little  son, 
and  to  have  allowed  of  assured  and  open  marriage,  came 
then,  Dicky  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter — laughter  he 
could  not  check — nasty,  jangling  merriment  that  seemed 


l6o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

as  if  would  go  on  forever.  When  he  had  recovered  him- 
self he  said,  quite  seriously,  "I'm  tired  of  work.  I'm  an 
old  man  now.    It's  about  time  I  retired.    And  I  will." 

"The  boy's  mad!"  said  the  Head. 

I  think  he  was  right;  but  Dicky  Hatt  never  reap- 
peared to  settle  the  question. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  l6l 


PIG. 

Go,  stalk  the  red  deer  o'er  the  heather. 

Ride,  follow  the  fox  if  you  can! 
But,  for  pleasure  and  profit  together. 

Allow  me  the  hunting  of  Man, — 
The  chase  of  the  Human,  the  search  for  the  Soul 

To  its  ruin, — the  hunting  of  Man. 

—The  Old  Shikarri. 

I  believe  the  difference  began  in  the  matter  of  a 
horse,  with  a  twist  in  his  temper,  whom  Pinecoffin  sold 
to  Nafferton  and  by  whom  Nafferton  was  nearly  slain. 
There  may  have  been  other  causes  of  offence;  the 
horse  was  the  official  stalking-horse.  Nafferton  was 
very  angry;  Pinecoffin  laughed,  and  said  that  he  had 
never  guaranteed  the  beast's  manners.  Nafferton 
laughed  too,  though  he  vowed  that  he  would  write  off 
his  fall  against  Pinecoffin  if  he  waited  live  years.  Now, 
a  Dalesman  from  beyond  Skipton  will  forgive  an  injury 
when  the  Strid  lets  a  man  live;  but  a  South  Devon  man 
is  as  soft  as  a  Dartmoor  bog.  You  can  see  from  their 
names  that  Nafferton  had  the  race-advantage  of  Pine- 
coffin. He  was  a  peculiar  man,  and  his  notions  of  humor 
were  cruel.  He  taught  me  a  new  and  fascinating  form  of 
shikar.  He  hounded  Pinecoffin  from  Mithankot  to  Jaga- 
dri,  and  from  Gurgaon  to  Abbottabad — up  and  across 
the  Punjab,  a  large  Province,  and  in  places  remarkably 
dry.  He  said  that  he  had  no  intention  of  allowing  As- 
sistant Commissioners  to  "sell  him  pups,"  in  the  shape 
of  ramping,   screaming  countrybreds,   without   making 

their  lives  a  burden  to  them. 
11 


1 62  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Most  Assistant  Commissioners  develop  a  bent  for 
some  special  work  after  their  first  hot  weather  in  the 
comitry.  The  boys  with  digestions  hope  to  write  their 
names  large  on  the  Frontier,  and  struggle  for  dreary 
places  like  Bannu  and  Kohat.  The  bilious  ones  climb 
into  the  Secretariat.  Which  is  very  bad  for  the  liver. 
Others  are  bitten  with  a  mania  for  District  work,  Ghuzni- 
vide  coins  or  Persian  poetry;  while  some,  who  come  of 
farmers'  stock,  find  that  the  smell  of  the  Earth  after 
the  Rains  gets  into  their  blood,  and  calls  them  to  "de- 
velop the  resources  of  the  Province."  These  men  are 
enthusiasts.  PinecofiEin  belonged  to  their  class.  He 
knew  a  great  many  facts  bearing  on  the  cost  of  bullocks 
and  temporary  wells,  and  opium-scrapers,  and  what  hap- 
pens if  you  burn  too  much  rubbish  on  a  field  in  the  hope 
of  enriching  used-up  soil.  All  the  Pinecoffins  come  of  a 
landholding  breed,  and  so  the  land  only  took  back  her 
own  again.  Unfortunately  —  most  unfortunately  for 
Pinecoffin — he  was  a  Civilian,  as  well  as  a  farmer. 
NafTerton  watched  him,  and  thought  about  the  horse. 
Nafiferton  said,  "See  me  chase  that  boy  till  he  drops !"  I 
said,  "You  can't  get  your  knife  into  an  Assistant  Com- 
missioner." Nafiferton  told  me  that  I  did  not  understand 
the  administration  of  the  Province. 

Our  Government  is  rather  peculiar.  It  gushes  on  the 
agricultural  and  general  information  side,  and  will  supply 
a  moderately  respectable  man  with  all  sorts  of  "eco- 
nomic statistics,"  if  he  speaks  to  it  prettily.  For  instance, 
you  are  interested  in  gold-washing  in  the  sands  of  the 
Sutlej.  You  pull  the  string,  and  find  that  it  wakes  up 
half  a  dozen  Departments,  and  finally  communicates, 
say,  with  a  friend  of  yours  in  the  Telegraph,  who  once 
wrote  some  notes  on  the  customs  of  the  gold-washers 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  163 

when  he  was  on  construction-work  in  their  part  of  the 
Empire.  He  may  or  may  not  be  pleased  at  being  ordered 
to  write  out  everything  he  knows  for  your  benefit.  This 
depends  on  his  temperament.  The  bigger  man  you  are, 
the  more  information  and  the  greater  trouble  can  you 
raise. 

NafTerton  was  not  a  big  man;  but  he  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  very  "earnest."  An  "earnest"  man  can  do 
much  with  a  Government.  There  was  an  earnest  man 
once  who  nearly  wrecked ....  but  all  India  knows  that 
story.  I  am  not  sure  what  real  "earnestness"  is.  A 
very  fair  imitation  can  be  manufactured  by  neglecting 
to  dress  decently,  by  mooning  about  in  a  dreamy,  misty 
sort  of  way,  by  taking  ofifice-work  home,  after  staying 
in  office  till  seven,  and  by  receiving  crowds  of  native  gen- 
tlemen on  Sundays.    That  is  one  sort  of  "earnestness." 

NafTerton  cast  about  for  a  peg  whereon  to  hang  his 
earnestness,  and  for  a  string  that  would  communicate 
with  Pinecofifin.  He  found  both.  They  were  Pig.  Naf- 
ferton  became  an  earnest  inquirer  after  Pig.  He  in- 
formed the  Government  that  he  had  a  scheme  where- 
by a  very  large  percentage  of  the  British  Army  in  India 
could  be  fed,  at  a  very  large  saving,  on  Pig.  Then  he 
hinted  that  Pinecoffin  might  supply  hirn  with  the  "varied 
information  necessary  to  the  proper  inception  of  the 
scheme."  So  the  Government  wrote  on  the  back  of  the 
letter,  "Instruct  Mr.  Pinecoffin  to  furnish  Mr.  Nafferton 
with  any  information  in  his  power."  Government  is  very 
prone  to  writing  things  on  the  backs  of  letters  which, 
later,  lead  to  trouble  and  confusion. 

NafTerton  had  not  the  faintest  interest  in  Pig,  but  he 
knew  that  Pinecoffin  would  flounce  into  the  trap.  Pine- 
coffin was  delighted  at  being  consulted  about  Pig.     The 


l64  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Indian  Pig  is  not  exactly  an  important  factor  in  agricul- 
tural life;  but  Nafferton  explained  to  Pinecoffin  that 
there  was  room  for  improvement,  and  corresponded 
direct  with  that  yoimg  man. 

You  may  think  that  there  is  not  much  to  be  evolved 
from  Pig.  It  all  depends  how  you  set  to  work.  Pine- 
coffin  being  a  Civilian  and  wishing  to  do  things  thor- 
oughly, began  with  an  essay  on  the  Primitive  Pig,  the 
Mythology  of  the  Pig,  and  the  Dravidian  Pig.  Naflter- 
ton  filed  that  information — twenty-seven  foolscap  sheets 
— and  wanted  to  know  about  the  distribution  of  the  Pig 
in  the  Punjab,  and  how  it  stood  the  Plains  in  the  hot 
weather.  From  this  point  onwards,  remember  that  I  am 
giving  you  only  the  barest  outlines  of  the  affair — the  guy- 
ropes,  as  it  were,  of  the  web  that  Nafferton  spun  round 
Pinecoffin. 

Pinecoffin  made  a  colored  Pig-population  map,  and 
collected  observations  on  the  comparative  longevity  of 
Pig  (a)  in  the  sub-montane  tracts  of  the  Himalayas,  and 
(b)  in  the  Rechna  Doab.  NafTerton  filed  that,  and  asked 
what  sort  of  people  looked  after  Pig.  This  started  an 
ethnological  excursus  on  swineherds,  and  drew  from 
Pinecoffin  long  tables  showing  the  proportion  per  thou- 
sand of  the  caste  in  the  Derajat.  Nafferton  filed  that 
bundle,  and  explained  that  the  figures  which  he  wanted 
referred  to  the  Cis-Sutlej  states,  where  he  understood 
that  Pigs  were  very  fine  and  large,  and  where  he  pro- 
posed to  start  a  Piggery.  By  this  time.  Government  had 
quite  forgotten  their  instructions  to  Mr.  Pinecoffin. 
They  were  like  the  gentlemen,  in  Keats'  poem,  who 
turned  well-oiled  wheels  to  skin  other  people.  But  Pine- 
coffin was  just  entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  Pig-hunt, 
as  Nafferton  well  knew  he    would    do.     He  had  a  fair 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  165 

amount  of  work  of  his  own  to  clear  away;  bui  he  sat  up 
of  nights  reducing  Pig  to  five  places  of  decimals  for 
the  honor  of  his  service.  He  was  not  going  to  appear 
ignorant  of  so  easy  a  subject  as  Pig. 

Then  Government  sent  him  on  special  duty  to  Kohat, 
to  "inquire  into"  the  big,  seven-foot,  iron-shod  spades 
of  that  District.  People  had  beeii  killing  each  other 
with  those  peaceful  tools;  and  Government  wished  to 
know  whether  a  modified  form  of  agricultural  implement 
could  not,  tentatively  and  as  a  temporary  measure,  be 
introduced  among  the  agricultural  population  without 
needlessly  or  unduly  exacerbating  the  existing  religious 
sentiments  of  the  peasantry." 

Between  those  spades  and  Nafferton's  Pig,  Pinecofifin 
was  rather  heavily  burdened. 

NafTerton  now  began  to  take  up  "(a)  The  food-supply 
of  the  indigenous  Pig,  with  a  view  to  the  improvement 
of  its  capacities  as  a  flesh-former,  (b)  The  acclimatiza- 
tion of  the  exotic  Pig,  maintaining  its  distinctive  peculiar- 
ities." Pinecoffin  replied  exhaustively  that  the  exotic  Pig 
would  become  merged  in  the  indigenous  type ;  and  quoted 
horse-breeding  statistics  to  prove  this.  The  side-issue 
was  debated,  at  great  length  on  Pinecoffin's  side,  till  Naf- 
ferton  owned  that  he  had  been  in  the  wrong,  and  moved 
the  previous  question.  When  PinecofTin  had  quite  written 
himself  out  about  flesh-formers,  and  fibrins,  and  glucose 
and  the  nitrogenous  constituents  of  maize  and  lucerne, 
Nafferton  raised  the  question  of  expense.  By  this  time 
Pinecoffin,  who  had  been  transferred  from  Kohat,  had 
developed  a  Pig  theory  of  his  own,  which  he  stated  in 
thirty-three  folio  pages — all  carefully  filed  by  NafYerton. 
Who  asked  for  more. 

These  things  took  ten  months,  and  Pinecoffin's  inter- 


l66  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

est  in  the  potential  Piggery  seemed  to  die  down  after  he 
had  stated  his  own  views.  But  Nafferton  bombarded 
him  with  letters  on  "the  Imperial  aspect  of  the  scheme, 
as  tending  to  officialize  the  sale  of  pork,  and  thereby 
calculated  to  give  offence  to  the  Mohammedan  popula- 
tion of  Upper  India."  He  guessed  that  Pinecofifin  would 
want  some  broad,  free-hand  work  after  his  niggling,  stip- 
pling, decimal  details.  Pinecoffin  handled  the  latest  de- 
velopment of  the  case  in  masterly  style,  and  proved  that 
no  "popular  ebullition  of  excitement  was  to  be  appre- 
hended." Nafferton  said  that  there  was  nothing  like 
Civilian  insight  in  matters  of  this  kind,  and  lured  him 
up  a  by-path — "the  possible  profits  to  accrue  to  the  Gov- 
ernment from  the  sale  of  hog-bristles."  There  is  an  ex- 
tensive literature  of  hog-bristles,  and  the  shoe,  brush  and 
color-man's  trades  recognize  more  varieties  of  bristles 
than  you  would  think  possible.  After  Pinecoffin  had 
wondered  a  little  at  Nafferton's  rage  for  information,  he 
sent  back  a  monograph,  fifty-one  pages,  on  "Products 
of  the  Pig."  This  led  him,  under  Nafferton's  tender 
handling,  straight  to  the  Cawnpore  factories,  the  trade 
in  hog-skin  for  saddles — and  thence  to  the  tanners.  Pine- 
coffin  wrote  that  pomegranate-seed  was  the  best  cure  for 
hog-skin,  and  suggested — for  the  past  fourteen  months 
had  wearied  him — 'that  Nafferton  should  "raise  his  pigs 
before  he  tanned  them." 

Nafferton  went  back  to  the  second  section  of  his  fifth 
question.  Plow  could  the  exotic  Pig  be  brought  to  give 
as  much  pork  as  it  did  in  the  West  and  yet  "assume  the 
essentially  hirsute  characteristics  of  its  original  con- 
gener?" Pinecoffin  felt  dazed,  for  he  had  forgotten  what 
he  had  written  sixteen  months  before,  and  fancied  that 
he  was  about  to  reopen  the  entire  question.     He  was  too 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  167 

far  involved  in  the  hideous  tangle  to  retreat,  and,  in  a 
weak  moment  he  wrote,  "ConsuU  my  first  letter."  Which 
related  to  the  Dravidian  Pig.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Pine- 
coffin  had  still  to  reach  the  acclimatization  stage;  having 
gone  off  on  a  side  issue  on  the  merging  of  types. 

Then  Nafiferton  really  unmasked  his  batteries!  He 
complained  to  the  Government,  in  stately  language,  of 
"the  paucity  of  help  accorded  to  me  in  my  earnest  at- 
tempts to  start  a  potentially  remunerative  industry,  and 
the  flippancy  with  which  my  requests  for  information 
are  treated  by  a  gentleman  whose  pseudo-scholarly  at- 
tainments should  at  least  have  taught  him  the  primary 
differences  between  the  Dravidian  and  the  Berkshire 
variety  of  the  genus  Sus.  If  I  am  to  understand  that 
the  letter  to  which  he  refers  me,  contains  his  serious  views 
on  the  acclimatization  of  a  valuable,  though  possibly  un- 
cleanly, animal,  I  am  reluctantly  compelled  to  believe," 
etc.,  etc. 

There  was  a  new  man  at  the  head  of  the  Department 
of  Castigation.  The  wretched  Pinecoffin  was  told  that 
the  Service  was  made  for  the  Country,  and  not  the  Coun- 
try for  the  Service,  and  that  he  had  better  begin  to  supply 
information  about  Pigs. 

Pinecoffin  answered  insanely  that  he  had  written  every- 
thing that  could  be  written  about  Pig,  and  that  some 
furlough  was  due  to  him. 

Nafferton  got  a  copy  of  that  letter,  and  sent  it,  with 
the  essay  on  the  Dravidian  Pig,  to  a  down-country  paper 
which  printed  both  in  full.  The  essay  was  rather  high- 
flown;  but  if  the  Editor  had  seen  the  stacks  of  paper, 
in  Pinecoffin's  handwriting,  on  Nafferton's  table,  he  would 
not  have  been  so  sarcastic  about  the  "nebulous  dis- 
cursiveness and  blatant   self-sufficiency  of  the   modern 


l68  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Competition-wallah,  and  his  utter  inability  to  grasp  the 
practical  issues  of  a  practical  question."  Many  friends 
cut  out  these  remarks  and  sent  them  to  Pinecoffin. 

I  have  already  stated  that  Pinecoffin  came  of  a  soft 
stock.  This  last  stroke  frightened  and  shook  him.  He 
could  not  understand  it;  but  he  felt  that  he  had  been, 
somehow,  shamelessly  betrayed  by  Nafferton.  He  real- 
ized that  he  had  wrapped  liimseif  up  in  the  Pigskin 
without  need,  and  that  he  could  not  well  set  himself 
right  with  his  Government.  All  his  acquaintances  asked 
after  his  "nebulous  discursiveness"  or  his  "blatant  self- 
sufficiency,"  and  this  made  him  miserable. 

He  took  a  train  and  went  to  Nafiferton,  whom  he  had 
not  seen  since  the  Pig  business  began.  He  also  took  the 
cutting  from  the  paper,  and  blustered  feebly  and  called 
Nafferton  names,  and  then  died  down  to  a  watery,  weak 
protest  of  the  "I-say-it's-too-bad-you-know"  order. 

Nafferton  was  very  sympathetic. 

"I'm  afraid  Fve  given  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble, 
haven't  I?"  said  he. 

"Trouble!"  whimpered  Pinecofifin;  "I  don't  mind  the 
trouble  so  much,  though  that  was  bad  enough;  but  what 
I  resent  is  this  showing  up  in  print.  It  will  stick  to  me 
like  a  burr  all  through  my  service.  And  I  did  do  my 
best  for  your  interminable  swine.  It's  too  bad  of  you — 
on  my  soul  it  is !" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Nafferton.  "Have  you  ever  been 
stuck  with  a  horse?  It  isn't  the  money  I  mind,  though 
that  is  bad  enough;  but  what  I  resent  is  the  chaff  that 
follows,  especially  from  the  boy  who  stuck  me.  But  I 
think  we'll  cry  quits  now." 

Pinecofifin  found  nothing  to  say  save  bad  words;  and 
Nafferton  smiled  ever  so  sweetly,  and  asked  him  to 
dinner. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  169 


THE  BRONCKHORST  DIVORCE-CASE. 

In  the  daytime,  when  she  moved  about  me, 

In  the  night,  when  she  was  sleeping  at  my  side, — 
I  was  wearied,  I  was  wearied  of  her  presence, 
Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  I  grew  to  hate  her — 
Would  God  that  she  or  I  had  died! 

— Ck)nfe6sions. 

There  was  a  man  called  Bronckhorst — a  three-cor- 
nered, middle-aged  man  in  the  Army — gray  as  a  badger, 
and,  some  people  said,  with  a  touch  of  countiy-blood  in 
him.  That,  however,  cannot  be  proved.  Mrs.  Bronck- 
horst was  not  exactly  young,  though  fifteen  years  young- 
er than  her  husband.  She  was  a  large,  pale,  quiet  woman, 
with  heavy  eyelids  over  weak  eyes,  and  hair  that  turned 
red  or  yellow  as  the  lights  fell  on  it. 

Bronckhorst  was  not  nice  in  any  way.  He  had  no 
respect  for  the  pretty  public  and  private  lies  that  make 
life  a  little  less  nasty  than  it  is.  His  manner  towards 
his  wife  was  coarse.  There  are  many  things — including 
actual  assault  with  the  clenched  fist — that  a  wife  will  en- 
dure; but  seldom  a  wife  can  bear — as  Mrs.  Bronck- 
horst bore — w'ith  a  long  course  of  brutal,  hard  chafT, 
making  light  of  her  weaknesses,  her  headaches,  her  small 
fits  of  gaiety,  her  dresses,  her  queer  little  attempts  to 
make  herself  attractive  to  her  husband  when  she  knows 
that  she  is  not  what  she  has  been,  and — worst  of  all — the 
love  that  she  spends  on  her  children.  That  particular 
sort  of  heavy-^handed  jest  was  specially  dear  to  Bronck- 
horst. I  suppose  that  he  had  first  slipped  into  it.  mean- 
ing no  harm,  in  the  honeymoon,  when  folk  find  their  or- 


170  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

dinary  stock  of  endearments  run  short,  and  so  go  to  the 
other  extreme  to  express  their  feeHngs.  A  similar  im- 
pulse makes  a  man  say,  "Hutt,  you  old  beast!"  when  a 
favorite  horse  nuzzles  his  coat-front.  Unluckily,  when 
the  reaction  of  marriage  sets  in,  the  form  of  speech  re- 
mains, and  the  tenderness  having  died  out,  hurts  the  wife 
more  than  she  cares  to  say.  But  Mrs.  Bronckhorst  was 
devoted  to  her  "Teddy"  as  she  called  him.  Perhaps  that 
was  why  he  objected  to  her.  Perhaps — this  is  only 
a  theory  to  account  for  his  infamous  behavior  later 
on —  he  gave  way  to  the  cjueer,  savage  feeling  that 
sometimes  takes  by  the  throat  a  husband  twenty  years 
married,  when  he  sees,  across  the  table,  the  same  face  of 
his  wedded  wife,  and  knows  that,  as  he  has  sat  facing  it,  so 
must  he  continue  to  sit  until  the  day  of  its  death  or  his 
own.  Most  men  and  all  women  know  the  spasm.  It 
only  lasts  for  three  breaths  as  a  rule,  must  be  a  "throw- 
back" to  times  when  men  and  women  were  rather  worse 
than  they  are  now,  and  is  too  unpleasant  to  be  discussed. 
Dinner  at  the  Bronckhorsts'  was  an  infliction  few  men 
cared  to  undergo.  Bronckhorst  took  a  pleasure  in  say- 
ing things  that  made  his.  wife  wince.  When  their  little 
boy  came  in  at  dessert,  Bronckhorst  used  to  give  him 
half  a  glass  of  wine,  and  naturally  enough,  the  poor  little 
mite  got  first  riotous,  next  miserable,  and  was  removed 
screaming.  Bronckhorst  asked  if  that  was  the  way 
Teddy  usually  behaved,  and  whether  Mrs.  Bronckhorst 
could  not  spare  some  of  her  time  "to  teach  the  little  beg- 
gar decency."  Mrs  Bronckhorst,  who  loved  the  boy 
more  than  her  own  life,  tried  not  to  cry — her  spirit 
seemed  to  have  been  broken  by  her  marriage.  Lastly, 
Bronckhorst  used  to  say,  "There!  That'll  do,  that'll  do. 
For  God's  sake,  try  to  behave  like  a  rational  woman.     Go 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I7I 

into  the  drawing-room."  Mrs.  Bronckhorst  would  go, 
trying  to  carry  it  all  off  with  a  smile;  and  the  guest  of  the 
evening  would  feel  angry  and  uncomfortable. 

After  three  years  of  this  cheerful  life — for  Mrs.  Bronck- 
horst had  no  women-friends  to  talk  to — the  Station  was 
startled  by  the  news  that  Bronckhorst  had  instituted  pro- 
ceedings on  the  criminal  count,  against  a  man  called  Biel, 
who  certainly  had  been  rather  attentive  to  ]Mrs.  Bronck- 
horst whenever  she  had  appeared  in  public.  The  utter 
want  of  reserve  with  which  Bronckhorst  treated  his  own 
dishonor  helped  us  to  know  that  the  evidence  against 
Biel  would  be  entirely  circumstantial  and  native.  There 
were  no  letters;  but  Bronckhorst  said  openly  that  he 
would  rack  Heaven  and  Earth  until  he  saw  Biel  super- 
intending the  manufacture  of  carpets  in  the  Central  Jail. 
Mrs.  Bronckhorst  kept  entirely  to  her  house,  and  let 
charitable  folks  say  what  they  pleased.  Opinions  were 
divided.  Some  two-thirds  of  the  Station  jumped  at  once 
to  the  conclusion  that  Biel  was  guilty;  but  a  dozen  men 
who  knew  and  liked  him  held  by  him.  Biel  was  furious 
and  surprised.  He  denied  the  whole  thing,  and  vowed 
that  he  would  thrash  Bronckhorst  within  an  inch  of  his 
life.  No  jury,  we  knew,  would  convict  a  man  on  the 
criminal  count  on  native  evidence  in  a  land  where  you 
can  buy  a  murder-charge,  including  the  corpse,  all  com- 
plete for  fifty-four  rupees;  but  Biel  did  not  care  to  scrape 
through  by  the  benefit  of  a  doubt.  He  wanted  the  whole 
thing  cleared;  but,  as  he  said  one  night — "He  can  prove 
anything  with  servants'  evidence,  and  I've  only  my  bare 
word."  This  was  almost  a  month  before  the  case  came 
on ;  and  beyond  agreeing  with  Biel,  we  could  do  little.  All 
that  we  could  be  sure  of  was  that  the  native  evidence 
would  be  bad  enough  to  blast  Biel's  character  for  the  rest 


172  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

of  his  service;  for  when  a  native  begins  perjury  he  per- 
jures himself  thoroughly.  He  does  not  boggle  over 
details. 

Some  genius  at  the  end  of  the  table  whereat  the  aflfair 
was  being  talked  over,  said,  "Look  here!  I  don't  believe 
lawyers  are  any  good.  Get  a  man  to  wire  to  Strickland, 
and  beg  him  to  come  down  and  pull  us  through." 

Strickland  was  about  a  hundred  and  eighty  miles  up 
the  line.  He  had  not  long  been  married  to  Miss  Youg- 
hal,  but  he  scented  in  the  telegram  a  chance  of  return  to 
the  old  detective  work  that  his  soul  lusted  after,  and  next 
night  he  came  in  and  heard  our  story.  He  finished  his 
pipe  and  said  oracularly,  "We  must  get  at  the  evidence. 
Oorya  bearer,  Mussulman  kbit  and  sweeper  ayah,  I  sup- 
pose, are  the  pillars  of  the  charge.  I  am  on  in  this  piece; 
but  I'm  afraid  I'm  g^etting  rusty  in  my  talk." 

He  rose  and  went  into  Biel's  bedroom,  where  his 
trunk  had  been  put,  and  shut  the  door.  An  hour  later,  we 
heard  him  say,  "I  hadn't  the  heart  to  part  with  my  old 
make-ups  when  I  married.  Will  this  do?"  There  was  a 
lothely  faquir  salaaming  in  the  doorway. 

"Now  lend  me  fifty  rupees,"  said  Strickland.  "an;l  give 
me  your  Words  of  Honor  that  you  won't  tell  my  wife." 

He  got  all  that  he  asked  for,  and  left  the  house  while 
the  table  drank  his  health.  What  he  did  only  he  himself 
knows.  A  faquir  hung-  about  Bronckhorst's  compound 
for  twelve  days.  Tlien  a  sweeper  appeared,  and  when 
Biel  heard  of  him,  he  said  that  Strickland  was  an  angel 
full-fledged.  Whether  the  sweeper  made  love  to  Janki, 
Mrs.  Bronckhorst's  ayah,  is  a  question  which  concerns 
Strickland  exclusively. 

He  came  back  at  the  end  of  three  weeks,  and  said 
quietly,  "You  spoke  the  truth,  Biel.     The  whole  busi- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 73 

ness  is  put  up  from  beginning  to  end.  'Jo'^^'  ^^  almost 
astonishes  me!     That  Bronckhorst-beast  isn't  fit  to  live." 

There  was  uproar  and  shouting,  and  Biel  said,  "How 
are  you  going  to  prove  it?  You  can't  say  that  you've 
been  trespassing  on  Bronckhorst's  compound  in  dis- 
guise !" 

"No,"  said  Strickland.  "Tell  your  lawyer-fool,  who- 
ever he  is,  to  get  up  something  strong  about  'inherent  im- 
probabilities' and  'discrepancies  of  evidence.'  He  won't 
have  to  speak,  but  it  will  make  him  happy.  I'm  going  to 
run  this  business." 

Biel  held  his  tongue,  and  the  other  men  waited  to  see 
what  would  happen.  They  trusted  Strickland  as  men 
trust  quiet  men.  When  the  case  came  off  the  Court  was 
crowded.  Strickland  hung  about  in  the  verandah  of  the 
Court,  till  he  met  the  Mohammedan  khitmatgar.  Then 
he  murmured  a  faquir's  blessing  in  his  ear,  and  asked  him 
how  his  second  wife  did.  The  man  spun  round,  and,  as 
he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  "Estreeken  Sahib,"  his  jaw 
dropped.  You  must  remember  that  before  Strickland 
was  married,  he  was,  as  I  have  told  you  already,  a  power 
among  natives.  Strickland  whispered  a  rather  coarse 
vernacular  proverb  to  the  effect  that  he  was  abreast  of  all 
that  was  going  on  and  went  into  the  Court  armed  with 
a  gut  trainer's-whip. 

The  Mohammedan  was  the  first  witness  and  Strick- 
land beamed  upon  him  from  the  back  of  the  Court.  The 
man  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue  and,  in  his  abject 
fear  of  "Estreeken  Sahib"  the  faquir,  went  back  on  every 
detail  of  his  evidence — said  he  was  a  poor  man  and  God 
was  his  witness  that  he  had  forgotten  everything  that 
Bronckhorst  Sahib  had  told  him  to  say.     Between  his 


174  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

terror  of  Strickland,  the  Judge,  and  Bronckhorst  he  col- 
lapsed weeping. 

Then  began  the  panic  among  the  witnesses.  Janki, 
the  ayah,  leering  chastely  behind  her  veil,  turned  gray, 
and  the  bearer  left  the  Court.  He  said  that  his  Mamma 
was  dying  and  that  it  was  not  wholesome  for  any  man 
to  lie  unthriftily  in  the  presence  of  "Estreeken  Sahib." 

Biel  said  politely  to  Bronckhorst,  "Your  witnesses 
don't  seem  to  work.  Haven't  you  any  forged  letters  to 
produce?"  But  Bronckhorst  was  swaying  to  and  fro  in 
his  chair,  and  there  was  a  dead  pause  after  Biel  had  been 
called  to  order. 

Bronckhorst's  Counsel  saw  the  look  on  his  client's 
face,  and  without  more  ado,  pitched  his  papers  on  the 
little  green  baize  table,  and  mumbled  something  about 
having  been  misinformed.  The  whole  court  applauded 
wildly,  like  soldiers  at  a  theater,  and  the  Judge  began 
to  say  what  he  thought. 

Biel  came  out  of  the  court,  and  Strickland  dropped  a 
gut  trainer's-whip  in  the  verandah.  Ten  minutes  later, 
Biel  was  cutting  Bronckhorst  into  ribbons  behind  the  old 
Court  cells,  quietly  and  without  scandal.  What  was 
left  of  Bronckhorst  was  sent  home  in  a  carriage ;  and  his 
wife  wept  over  it  and  nursed  it  into  a  man  again. 

Later  on,  after  Biel  had  managed  to  hush  up  the  coun- 
ter-charge against  Bronckhorst  of  fabricating  false  evi- 
dence, Mrs.  Bronckhorst,  with  her  faint  watery  smile, 
said  that  there  had  been  a  mistake,  but  it  wasn't  her 
Teddy's  fault  altogether.  She  would  wait  till  her  Teddy 
came  back  to  her.  Perhaps  he  had  grown  tired  of  her, 
or  she  had  tried  his  patience,  and  perhaps  we  wouldn't 
cut  her  any  more,  and  perhaps  the  mothers  would  let 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I/S 

their  children  play  with  "little  Teddy"  again.  He  was  so 
lonely.  Then  the  Station  invited  Mrs.  Bronckhorst 
everywhere,  until  Bronckhorst  was  fit  to  appear  in  public, 
when  he  went  Home  and  took  his  wife  with  him.  Ac- 
cording to  latest  advices,  her  Teddy  did  come  back  to  her, 
and  they  are  moderately  happy.  Though,  of  course,  he 
can  never  forgive  her  the  thrashing  that  she  was  the  in- 
direct means  of  getting  for  him. 

What  Biel  wants  to  know  is,  "Why  didn't  I  press  home 
the  charge  against  the  Bronckhorst-brute,  and  have  him 
run  in?" 

What  Mrs.  Strickland  wants  to  know  is,  "How  did 
my  husband  bring  such  a  lovely,  lovely  Waler  from  your 
Station?  I  know  all  his  money-afifairs ;  and  I'm  certain 
he  didn't  buy  it." 

What  1  want  to  know  is,  "How  do  women  Uke  Mrs. 
Bronckhorst  come  to  marry  men  like  Bronckhorst?" 

And  my  conundrum  is  the  most  unanswerable  of  the 
three. 


176  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THE  BISARA  OF  POORER 

Little  Blind  Fish,  thou  art  marvellous  wise, 
Little  Blind  Fish,  who  put  out  thy  eyes? 
Open  thy  ears  while  I  whisper  my  wish — 
Bring  me  a  lover,  thou  little  Blind  Fish. 

— The  Charm  of  the  Bisara. 

Some  natives  say  that  it  came  from  the  other  side  of 
Kulu,  where  the  eleven-inch  Temple  Sapphire  is.  Others 
that  it  was  made  at  the  Devil-Shrine  of  Ao-Chung  in  Thi- 
bet, was  stolen  by  a  Kafir,  from  him  by  a  Gurkha,  from 
him  again  by  a  Lahouli,  from  him  by  a  khitmatgar,  and 
by  this  latter  sold  to  an  Englishman,  so  all  its  virtue  was 
lost;  because,  to  work  properly,  the  Bisara  of  Pooree 
must  be  stolen — with  bloodshed  if  possible,  but.  at  any 
rate,  stolen. 

These  stories  of  the  coming  into  India  are  all  false. 
It  was  made  at  Pooree  ages  since — the  manner  of  its  mak- 
ing would  fill  a  small  book — was  stolen  by  one  of  the 
Temple  dancing-girls  there,  for  her  own  purposes,  and 
then  passed  on  from  hand  to  hand,  steadily  northward, 
till  it  reached  Hanle:  always  bearing  the  same  name — 
the  Bisara  of  Pooree.  In  shape  it  is  a  tiny  square  box  of 
silver,  studded  outside  with  eight  small  balas-rubies.  In- 
side the  box,  which  opens  with  a  spring,  is  a  little  eyeless 
fish,  carved  from  some  sort  of  dark,  shiny  nut,  and 
wrapped  in  a  shred  of  faded  gold-cloth.  That  is  the 
Bisara  of  Pooree,  and  it  were  better  for  a  man  to  take  a 
king-cobra  in  his  hand  than  to  touch  the  Bisara  of  Pooree. 

All  kinds  of  magic  are  out  of  date,  and  done  away  with 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I77 

except  in  India  where  nothing  changes  in  spite  of  the 
shiny,  top-scum  stuff  that  people  call  "civilization."  Any 
man  who  knows  about  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  will  tell  you 
what  its  powers  are — always  supposing  that  it  has  been 
honestly  stolen.  It  is  the  only  regularly  working,  trust- 
worthy love-charm  in  the  country,  with  one  exception. 
[The  other  charm  is  in  the  hands  of  a  trooper  of  the 
Nizam's  Horse,  at  a  place  called  Tuprani,  due  north  of 
Hyderabad.]  This  can  be  depended  upon  for  a  fact. 
Some  one  else  may  explain  it. 

If  the  Bisara  be  not  stolen,  but  given  or  bought  or 
found,  it  turns  against  its  owner  in  three  years,  and  leads 
to  ruin  or  death.  This  is  another  fact  which  you  may  ex- 
plain when  you  have  time.  Meanwhile,  you  can  laugh  at 
it.  At  present,  the  Bisara  is  safe  on  a  hack-pony's  neck, 
inside  the  blue  bead-necklace  that  keeps  off  the  Evil-Eye. 
It  the  pony-driver  ever  finds  it,  and  wears  it.  or  gives  it 
to  his  wife,  I  am  sorry  for  him. 

A  very  dirty  hill-cooly  woman,  with  goitre,  owned  it 
at  Theog  in  1884.  It  came  into  Simla  from  the  north 
before  Churton's  khitmatgar  bought  it,  and  sold  it  for 
three  times  its  silver-value,  to  Churton,  who  collected  cu- 
riosities. The  servant  knew  no  more  what  he  had  bought 
than  the  miaster;  but  a  man  looking  over  Churton's  col- 
lection of  curiosities — Churton  was  an  Assistant  Com- 
missioner by  the  way — saw  and  held  his  tongue.  He  was 
an  Englishman;  but  knew  how  to  believe.  Which  shows 
that  he  was  different  from  most  Englishmen.  He  knew 
that  it  was  dangerous  to  have  any  share  in  the  little  box 
when  working  or  dormant;  for  Love  unsought  is  a  ter- 
rible gift. 

Pack — "Grubby"  Pack,  as  we  used  to  call  him — was, 
in  every  way,  a  nasty  little  man  who  must  have  crawled 
12 


178  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

into  the  Army  by  mistake.  He  was  three  inches  taller 
than  his  sword,  but  not  half  so  strong.  And  the  sword 
was  a  fifty-shilling,  tailor-made  one.  Nobody  liked  him, 
and,  I  suppose,  it  was  his  wizenedness  and  worthlessness 
that  made  him  fall  so  hopelessly  in  love  with  Miss  Hollis, 
who  was  good  and  sweet,  and  five-foot-seven  in  her  ten- 
nis-shoes. He  was  not  content  with  falling  in  love  quietly, 
but  brought  all  the  strength  of  his  miserable  little  nature 
into  the  business.  If  he  had  not  been  so  objectionable, 
one  might  have  pitied  him.  He  vapored,  and  fretted,  and 
fumed,  and  trotted  up  and  down,  and  tried  to  make  him- 
self pleasing  in  Miss  Hollis'  big,  quiet,  gray  eyes,  and 
failed.  It  was  one  of  the  cases  that  you  sometimes  meet, 
even  in  our  country  where  we  marry  by  Code,  of  a  really 
blind  attachment  all  on  one  side,  without  the  faintest  pos- 
sibility of  return.  Miss  Hollis  looked  on  Pack  as  some 
sort  of  vermin  running  about  the  road.  He  had  no  pros- 
pects beyond  Captain's  pay,  and  no  wits  to  help  that  out 
by  one  penny.  In  a  large-sized  man,  love  like  his  would 
have  been  touching.  In  a  good  man  it  would  have  been 
grand.     He  being  what  he  was,  it  was  only  a  nuisance. 

You  will  believe  this  much.  What  you  will  not  be- 
lieve is  what  follows:  Churton,  and  The  Man  who  Knew 
what  the  Bisara  was,  were  lunching  at  the  Simla  Club  to- 
gether. Churton  was  complaining  of  life  in  general.  His 
best  mare  had  rolled  out  of  stable  down  the  cliff  and 
had  broken  her  back;  his  decisions  were  being  reversed 
by  the  upper  Courts  more  than  an  Assistant  Commis- 
sioner of  eight  years'  standing  has  a  right  to  expect;  he 
knew  liver  and  fever,  and,  for  weeks  past,  had  felt  out  of 
sorts.     Altogether,  he  was  disgusted  and  disheartened. 

Simla  Club  dining-room  is  built,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  in  two  sections,  with  an  arch-arrangement  divid- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I79 

ing  them.  Come  in,  turn  to  your  own  left,  take  the  table 
under  the  window,  and  you  cannot  see  any  one  who  has 
come  in,  turned  to  the  right,  and  taken  a  table  on  the 
right  side  of  the  arch.  Curiously  enough,  every  word 
that  you  say  can  be  heard,  not  only  by  the  other  diner, 
but  by  the  servants  beyond  the  screen  through  which  they 
bring  dinner.  This  is  worth  knowing;  an  echoing-room 
is  a  trap  to  be  forewarned  against. 

Half  in  fun,  and  half  hoping  to  be  believed.  The  Man 
who  Knew  told  Churton  the  story  of  the  Bisara  of  Pooree 
at  rather  greater  length  than  I  have  told  it  to  you  in  this 
place ;  winding  up  with  a  suggestion  that  Churton  might 
as  well  throw  the  little  box  down  the  hill  and  see  whether 
all  his  troubles  would  go  with  it.  In  ordinary  ears,  Eng- 
lish ears,  the  tale  was  only  an  interesting  bit  of  folklore. 
Churton  laughed,  said  that  he  felt  better  for  his  tiffin, 
and  went  out.  Pack  had  been  tiffining  by  himself  to  the 
right  of  the  arch,  and  had  heard  everything.  He  was 
nearly  mad  with  his  absurd  infatuation  for  Miss  Hollis, 
that  all  Simla  had  been  laughing  about. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that,  when  a  man  hates  or  loves 
beyond  reason,  he  is  ready  to  go  beyond  reason  to  gratify 
his  feelings.  Which  he  would  not  do  for  money  or 
power  merely.  Depend  upon  it,  Solomon  would  never 
have  built  altars  to  Ashtaroth  and  all  those  ladies  with 
queer  names,  if  there  had  not  been  trouble  of  some  kind 
in  his  zenana,  and  nowhere  else.  But  this  is  beside  the 
story.  The  facts  of  the  case  are  these:  Pack  called  on 
Churton  next  day  when  Churton  was  out,  left  his  card, 
and  stole  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  from  its  place  under  the 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece!  Stole  it  like  the  thief  he  was  by 
nature.  Three  days  later  all  Simla  was  electrified  by  the 
news  that  Miss  Hollis  had  accepted  Pack-^the  shrivelled 


l80  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

rat,  Pack!  Do  you  desire,  clearer  evidcHce  than  this? 
The  Bisara  of  Pooree  had  been  stolen,  and  it  worked  as 
it  had  always  done  when  won  by  foul  means. 

There  are  three  or  four  times  in  a  man's  life  when  he 
is  justified  in  meddling  with  other  people's  affairs  to  play 
Providence. 

The  Man  who  Knew  felt  that  he  was  justified;  but 
believing  and  acting  on  a  belief  are  quite  different  things. 
The  insolent  satisfaction  of  Pack  as  he  ambled  by  the 
side  of  Miss  Hollis,  and  Churton's  striking  release  from 
liver,  as  soon  as  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  had  gone,  decided 
The  Man.  He  explained  to  Churton,  and  Churton 
laughed,  because  he  was  not  brought  up  to  believe  that 
men  on  the  Government  House  List  steal — at  least  little 
things.  But  the  miraculous  acceptance  by  Miss  Hollis 
of  that  tailor,  Pack,  decided  him  to  take  steps  on  suspi- 
cion. He  vowed  that  he  only  wanted  to  find  out  where 
his  ruby-studded  silver  box  had  vanished  to.  You  cannot 
accuse  a  man  on  the  Government  House  List  of  stealing. 
And  if  you  rifle  his  room,  you  are  a  thief  yourself.  Chur- 
ton, prompted  by  The  Man  who  Knew,  decided  on  bur- 
glary. If  he  found  nothing  in  Pack's  room  .  .  .  but  it 
is  not  nice  to  think  of  what  would  have  happened  in  that 
case. 

Pack  went  to  a  dance  at  Benmore — Benmore  was  Ben- 
more  in  those  days,  and  not  an  office — and  danced  fifteen 
waltzes  out  of  twenty-two  with  Miss  Hollis.  Churton 
and  The  Man  took  all  the  keys  that  they  could  lay  hands 
on,  and  went  to  Pack's  room  in  the  hotel,  certain  that  his 
servants  would  be  away.  Pack  was  a  cheap  soul.  He 
had  not  purchased  a  decent  cash-box  to  keep  his  papers 
in,  but  one  of  those  native  imitations  that  you  buy  for  ten 
rupees.     It  opened  to  any  sort  of  key,  and  there  at  the 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  l8r 

liottom,  under  Pack's  Insurance  Policy,  lay  the  Bisara 
of  Pooree! 

Churton  called  Pack  names,  put  the  Bisara  of  Pooree 
in  his  pocket,  and  went  to  the  dance  with  The  Man.  At 
least  he  came  in  time  for  supper,  and  saw  the  beginning 
of  the  end  in  Miss  Hollis'  eyes.  She  was  hysterical 
after  supper,  and  was  taken  away  by  her  Mamma. 

At  the  dance,  with  the  abominable  Bisara  in  his  pocket, 
Churton  twisted  his  foot  on  one  of  the  steps  leading  down 
to  the  old  Rink,  and  had  to  be  sent  home  in  a  'rickshaw, 
grumbling.  He  did  not  believe  in  the  Bisara  of  Pooree 
any  the  more  for  this  manifestation,  but  he  sought  out 
Pack  and  called  him  ugly  names;  and  "thief"  was  the 
mildest  of  them.  Pack  took  the  names  with  the  nervous 
smile  of  a  little  man  who  wants  both  soul  and  body  to 
resent  an  insult,  and  went  his  way.  There  was  no  public 
scandal. 

A  week  later,  Pack  got  his  definite  dismissal  from  Miss 
Hollis.  There  had  been  a  mistake  in  the  placing  of  her 
affections,  she  said.  So  he  went  away  to  Madras,  v.'here 
he  can  do  no  great  harm  even  if  he  lives  to  be  a  Colonel. 

Churton  insisted  upon  The  Man  who  Knew  taking 
the  Bisara  of  Pooree  as  a  gift.  The  Man  took  it,  went 
down  to  the  Cart-Road  at  once,  found  a  cart-pony  with 
a  blue  bead-necklace,  fastened  the  Bisara  of  Pooree  inside 
the  necklace  with  a  piece  of  shoe-string  and  thanked 
Heaven  that  he  was  rid  of  a  danger.  Remember,  in  case 
you  ever  find  it,  that  you  must  not  destroy  the  Bisara  of 
Pooree.  I  have  not  time  to  explain  why  just  now,  but 
the  power  lies  in  the  little  wooden  fish.  Mister  Guber- 
natis  or  Max  Miiller  could  tell  you  more  about  it  than  I. 

You  will  say  that  all  this  story  is  made  up.  Very  well. 
If  ever  you  come  across  a  little,  silver,  ruby-studded  box, 


1 82  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

seven-eighths  of  an  inch  long  by  three-quarters  wide, 
with  a  dark  brown  wooden  fish,  wrapped  in  gold  doth, 
inside  it,  keep  it.  Keep  it  for  three  years,  and  then  you 
will  discover  for  yourself  whether  my  story  is  true  or  false. 
Better  still,  steal  it  as  Pack  did,  and  you  will  be  sorry 
that  you  had  not  killed  yourself  in  the  beginning. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  183 


A  FRIEND'S  FRIEND. 

Wherefore  slew  you  the  stranger?    He  brought  me  dishonor. 
I  saddled  my  mare  Bijli.     I  set  him  upon  her. 
I  gave  him  rice  and  goat's  flesh.     He  bared  me  to  laughter; 
"When  he  was  gone  from  my  tent,  swift  I  followed  after, 
Taking  a  sword  in  my  hand.     The  hot  wine  had  filled  him: 
Under  the  stars  he  mocked  me.    Therefore  I  killed  him. 

— Hadramauti. 

This  tale  must  be  told  in  the  first  person  for  many  rea- 
sons. The  man  whom  I  want  to  expose  is  Tranter  of 
the  Bombay  side.  I  want  Tranter  black-balled  at  his 
Club,  divorced  from  his  wife,  turned  out  of  Service,  and 
cast  into  prison,  until  I  get  an  apology  from  him  in  writ- 
ing. I  wish  to  warn  the  world  against  Tranter  of  the 
Bomba}'^  side. 

You  know  the  casual  way  in  which  men  pass  on  ac- 
quaintances in  India?  It  is  a  great  convenience,  because 
you  can  get  rid  of  a  man  you  don't  like  by  writing  a  letter 
of  introduction  and  putting  him,  with  ir,  into  the  train. 
T.  G.'s  are  best  treated  thus.  If  you  keep  them  moving, 
they  have  no  time  to  say  insulting  and  offensive  things 
about  "Anglo-Indian  Society." 

One  day,  late  in  the  cold  weather,  I  got  a  letter  of  prep- 
aration from  Tranter  of  the  Bombay  side,  advising  me 
of  the  advent  of  a  T.  G.,  a  man  called  Jevon;  and  say- 
ing, as  usual,  that  any  kindness  shown  to  Jevon  would 
be  a  kindness  to  Tranter.  Every  one  knows  the  regular 
form  of  these  communications. 

Two  days  afterwards,  Jevon  turned  up  with  his  letter 


l84  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

of  introduction,  and  I  did  what  I  could  for  him.  He  was 
lint-haired,  fresh-colored,  and  very  English.  But  he  held 
no  views  about  the  Government  of  India.  Nor  did  he 
insist  on  shooting  tigers  on  the  Station  Mall,  as  some  T. 
G.'s  do.  Nor  did  he  call  us  "colonists,"  and  dine  in  a 
flannel-shirt  and  tweeds,  under  that  delusion  as  other  T. 
G.'s  do.  He  was  well  behaved  and  very  grateful  for  the 
little  I  won  for  him — most  grateful  of  all  when  I  secured 
him  an  invitation  for  the  Afghan  Ball,  and  introduced  him 
to  a  Mrs.  Deemes,  a  lady  for  whom  I  had  a  great  respect 
and  admiration,  who  danced  like  the  shadow  of  a  leaf  in 
a  light  wind.  I  set  great  store  by  the  friendship  of  Mrs. 
Deemes;  but,  had  I  known  what  was  coming,  I  would 
have  broken  Jevon's  neck  with  a  curtain-pole  before  get- 
ting him  that  invitation. 

But  I  did  not  know,  and  he  dined,  at  the  Club,  I  think, 
on  the  night  of  the  ball.  I  dined  at  home.  When  I 
went  to  the  dance,  the  first  man  I  met  asked  me  whether 
I  had  seen  Jevon.  "No,"  said  I.  "He's  at  the  Club. 
Hasn't  he  come?" — "Come!"  said  the  man.  "Yes,  he's 
very  much  come.     You'd  better  look  at  him." 

I  sought  for  Jevon.  I  found  him  sitting  on  a  bench 
and  smiling  to  himself  and  a  programme.  Half  a  look 
enough  for  me.  On  that  one  night,  of  all  others,  he  had 
begun  a  long  and  thirsty  evening,  by  taking  too  much! 
He  was  breathing  heavily  through  his  nose,  his  eyes  were 
rather  red,  and  he  appeared  very  satisfied  with  all  the 
earth.  I  put  up  a  little  prayer  that  the  waltzing  would 
work  ofif  the  wine,  and  went  about  programme-filling, 
feeling  uncomfortable.  But  I  saw  Jevon  walk  up  to 
Mrs.  Deemes  for  the  first  dance,  and  I  knew  that  all  the 
waltzing  on  the  card  was  not  enough  to  keep  Jevon's  re- 
bellious legs  steady.     Thaf  couple  went  round  six  times. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  185 

I  counted.  Mrs.  Deemes  dropped  Jevon's  arm  and  came 
across  to  me. 

I  am  not  going  to  repeat  what  Mrs.  Deemes  said  to  me; 
because  she  was  very  angry  indeed.  I  am  not  going  to 
write  what  I  said  to  Mrs.  Deemes,  beca;use  I  didn't  say 
anything.  I  only  wished  that  I  had  killed  Jevon  first  and 
been  hanged  for  it.  Mrs.  Deemes  drew  her  pencil  through 
all  the  dances  that  I  had  booked  with  her,  and  went  away, 
leaving  me  to  remember  that  what  I  ought  to  have  said 
was  that  Mrs.  Deemes  had  asked  to  be  introduced  to 
Jevon  because  he  danced  well ;  and  that  I  really  had  not 
carefully  worked  out  a  plot  to  get  her  insulted.  But  I 
felt  that  argument  was  no  good,  and  that  I  had  better 
try  to  stop  Jevon  from  waltzing  me  into  more  trouble. 
He,  however,  was  gone,  and  about  every  third  dance  I 
set  off  to  hunt  for  him.  This  ruined  what  little  pleasure 
I  expected  from  the  entertainment. 

Just  before  supper  I  caught  Jevon,  at  the  buffet  with 
his  legs  wide  apart,  talking  to  a  very  fat  and  indignant 
chaperone.  "If  this  person  is  a  friend  of  yours,  as  I  un- 
derstand he  is,  I  would  recommend  you  to  take  him 
home,"  said  she.  "He  is  unfit  for  decent  society."  Then 
I  knew  that  goodness  only  knew  what  Jevon  had  been 
doing,  and  I  tried  to  get  him  away. 

But  Jevon  wasn't  going;  not  he.  He  knew  what  was 
good  for  him,  he  did ;  and  he  wasn't  going  to  be  dictated 
to  by  any  loconial  nigger-driver,  he  wasn't;  and  I  was 
the  friend  who  had  formed  his  infant  mind  and  brought 
him  up  to  buy  Benares  brassware  and  fear  God,  so  I  was; 
and  we  would  have  many  more  blazing  good  drunks  to- 
gether, so  we  would;  and  all  the  she-camels  in  black 
silk  in  the  world  shouldn't  make  him  withdraw  his  opin- 
ion that  there  was  nothing  better  than  Benedictine  to  give 


l86  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

one  an  appetite.     And  then  .  .  .  but  he  was  my  guest. 

I  set  him  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  supper-room,  and 
went  to  find  a  wall-prop  that  I  could  trust.  There  was 
a  good  and  kindly  Subaltern — may  Heaven  bless  that 
Subaltern,  and  make  him  a  Commander-in-Chief! — who 
heard  of  my  trouble.  .  He  was  not  dancing  himself,  and 
he  owned  a  head  like  five-year-old  teak-baulks.  He  said 
that  he  would  look  after  Jevon  till  the  end  of  the  ball. 

"Don't  suppose  you  much  mind  what  I  do  with  him?" 
said  he. 

"Mind!"  said  I.  "No!  You  can  murder  the  beast  if 
you  like." 

But  the  Subaltern  did  not  murder  him.  He  trotted 
off  to  the  supper-room,  and  sat  down  by  Jevon,  drinking 
peg  for  peg  with  him.  I  saw  the  two  fairly  established 
and  went  away,  feeling  more  easy. 

When  "The  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England"  sounded,  I 
heard  of  Jevon's  performances  between  the  first  dance 
and  my  meeting  with  him  at  the  bufifet.  After  Mrs. 
Deemes  had  cast  him  off,  it  seems  that  he  had  found  his 
way  into  the  gallery,  and  offered  to  conduct  the  Band  or 
to  play  any  instrument  in  it,  just  as  the  Bandmaster 
pleased. 

When  the  Bandmaster  refused,  Jevon  said  that  he 
wasn't  appreciated,  and  he  yearned  for  sympathy.  So 
he  trundled  downstairs  and  sat  out  four  dances  with  four 
girls,  and  proposed  to  three  of  them.  One  of  the  girls 
was  a  married  woman  by  the  way.  Then  he  went  into  the 
whist-room,  and  fell  face-down  and  wept  on  the  hearth- 
rug in  front  of  the  fire,  because  he  had  fallen  into  a  den  of 
card-sharpers,  and  his  Mamma  had  always  warned  him 
against  bad  company.     He  had  done  a  lot  of  other  things, 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  1 87 

too,  and  had  taken  about  three  quarts  of  mixed  Hquors. 
Besides,  speaking  of  me  in  the  most  scandalous  fashion! 

All  the  women  wanted  him  turned  out,  and  all  the  men 
wanted  him  kicked.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that  every  one 
said  it  was  my  fault.  Now,  I  put  it  to  you  how  on  earth 
could  I  have  known  that  this  innocent,  flufTy  T.  G.  would 
break  out  in  this  disgusting  manner?  You  see  he  had 
gone  round  the  world  nearly,  and  his  vocabulary  of  abuse 
was  cosmopolitan,  though  mainly  Japanese  which  he  had 
picked  up  in  a  low  tea-house  at  Hakodate.  It  sounded 
like  whistling. 

While  I  was  listening  to  first  one  man  and  then  an- 
other telling  me  of  Jevon's  shameless  behavior  and  asking 
me  for  his  blood,  I  wondered  where  he  was.  I  was  pre- 
pared to  sacrifice  him  to  Society  on  the  spot. 

But  Jevon  was  gone,  and,  far  away  in  the  corner  of 
the  supper-room,  sat  my  dear,  good  Subaltern,  a  little 
flushed,  eating  salad.  I  went  over  and  said,  "Where's 
Jevon?" — "In  the  cloakroom,"  said  the  Subaltern.  "He'll 
keep  till  the  women  have  gone.  Don't  you  interfere  with 
my  prisoner."  I  didn't  want  to  interfere,  but  I  peeped 
into  the  cloak-room,  and  found  my  guest  put  to  bed  on 
some  rolled-up  carpets,  all  comfy,  his  collar  free,  and  a 
wet  swab  on  his  head. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  I  spent  in  making  timid  at- 
tempts to  explain  things  to  Mrs.  Deemes  and  three  or 
four  other  ladies,  and  trying  to  clear  my  character — for  I 
am  a  respectable  man — from  the  shameful  slurs  that  my 
guest  had  cast  upon  it.  Libel  was  no  word  for  what  he 
had  said. 

When  I  wasn't  trying  to  explain,  I  was  running  ofif  to 
the  cloakroom  to  see  that  Jevon  wasn't  dead  of  apoplexy. 


1 88  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

I  didn't  want  him  to  die  on  my  hands.  He  had  eaten 
my  salt. 

At  last  that  ghastly  ball  ended,  though  I  was  not  in 
the  least  restored  to  Mrs.  Deemes'  favor.  When  the 
ladies  had  gone,  and  some  one  was  calling  for  songs  at 
the  second  supper,  that  angelic  Subaltern  told  the  ser- 
vants to  bring  in  the  Sahib  who  was  in  the  cloakroom, 
and  clear  away  one  end  of  the  supper-table.  While  this 
was  being  done,  we  formed  ourselves  into  a  Board  of 
Punishment  with  the  Doctor  for  President. 

Jevon  came  in  on  four  men's  shoulders,  and  was  put 
down  on  the  table  like  a  corpse  in  a  dissecting-room, 
while  the  Doctor  lectured  on  the  evils  of  intemperance 
and  Jevon  snored.     Then  we  set  to  work. 

We  corked  the  whole  of  his  face.  We  filled  his  hair 
with  meringue-cream  till  it  looked  like  a  white  wig.  To 
protect  everything  till  it  dried,  a  man  in  the  Ordnance 
Department,  who  understood  the  work,  luted  a  big  blue 
paper  cap  from  a  cracker,  with  meringue-cream,  low 
down  on  Jevon's  forehead.  This  was  punishment,  not 
play,  remember.  We  took  gelatine  ofif  crackers,  and 
stuck  blue  gelatine  on  his  nose,  and  yellow  gelatine  on  his 
chin,  and  green  and  red  gelatine  on  his  cheeks,  pressing 
each  dab  down  till  it  held  as  firm  as  goldbeaters'  skin. 

We  put  a  ham-frill  round  his  neck,  and  tied  it  in  a 
bow  in  front.     He  nodded  like  a  mandarin. 

We  fixed  gelatine  on  the  back  of  his  hands,  and  burnt- 
corked  them  inside,  and  put  small  cutlet-frills  round  his 
wrists,  and  tied  both  wrists  together  with  string.  We 
waxed  up  the  ends  of  his  moustache  with  isinglass.  He 
looked  very  martial. 

We  turned  him  over,  pinned  up  his  coat-tails  between 
his  shoulders,  and  put  a  rosette  of  cutlet-frills  there.     We 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  189 

took  up  the  red  cloth  from  the  ball-room  to  the  supper- 
room,  and  wound  him  up  in  it.  There  were  sixty  feet  of 
red  cloth,  six  feet  broad;  and  he  rolled  up  into  a  big  fat 
bundle,  with  only  that  amazing  head  sticking  out. 

Lastly,  we  tied  up  the  surplus  of  the  cloth  beyond  his 
feet  with  cocoanut-fibre  string  as  tightly  as  we  knew  how. 
We  were  so  angry  that  we  hardly  laughed  at  all. 

just  as  we  finished,  we  heard  the  rumble  of  bullock- 
carts  taking  away  some  chairs  and  things  that  the  Gen- 
eral's wife  had  lent  for  the  ball.  So  we  hoisted  Jevon, 
like  a  roll  of  carpets,  into  one  of  the  carts,  and  the  carts 
went  away. 

Now  the  most  extraordinary  part  of  this  tale  is  that 
never  again  did  I  see  or  hear  anything  of  Jevon,  T.  G. 
He  vanished  utterly.  He  was  not  delivered  at  the  Gen- 
eral's house  with  the  carpets.  He  just  went  into  the 
black  darkness  of  the  end  of  the  night,  and  was  swal- 
lowed up.  Perhaps  he  died  and  was  thrown  into  the 
river. 

But,  alive  or  dead,  I  have  often  wondered  how  he  got 
rid  of  the  red  cloth  and  the  meringue-cream.  I  wonder 
still  whether  Mrs.  Deemes  will  ever  take  any  notice 
of  me  again,  and  whether  I  shall  live  down  the  infam- 
ous stories  that  Jevon  set  afloat  about  my  manners  and 
customs  between  the  first  and  the  ninth  waltz  of  the 
Afghan  Ball.    They  stick  closer  than  cream. 

Wherefore,  I  want  Tranter  of  the  Bombay  side,  dead 
or  alive.    But  dead  for  preference. 


190  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THE  GATE  OF  THE  HUNDRED  SORROWS. 

If  I  can  attain  Heaven  for  a  pice,  why  should  you  be  envious? 

— Opium  Smoker's  Proverb. 

This  is  no  work  of  mine.  My  friend,  Gabral  Misquitta, 
the  half-caste,  spoke  it  all,  between  moonset  and  morn- 
ing, six  weeks  before  he  died;  and  I  took  it  down  from 
his  mouth  as  he  answered  my  questions.     So : — 

It  lies  between  the  Coppersmith's  Gully  and  the  pipe- 
stem  sellers'  quarter,  within  a  hundred  yards,  too,  as  the 
crow  flies,  of  the  ]\Iosque  of  Wazir  Khan.  I  don't  mind 
telling  any  one  this  much,  but  I  defy  him  to  find  the 
Gate,  however  well  he  may  think  he  knows  the  City. 
You  might  even  go  through  the  very  gully  it  stands  in  a 
hundred  times,  and  be  none  the  wiser.  We  used  to  call 
the  gully,  "The  Gully  of  the  Black  Smoke,"  but  its  native 
name  is  altogether  dififerent  of  course.  A  loaded  donkey 
couldn't  pass  between  the  walls;  and,  at  one  point,  just 
before  you  reach  the  Gate,  a  bulged  house-front  makes 
people  go  along  all  sideways. 

It  isn't  really  a  gate  though.  It's  a  house.  Old  Fung- 
Tching  had  it  first  five  years  ago.  He  was  a  boot-maker 
in  Calcutta.  They  say  that  he  murdered  his  wife  there 
when  he  was  drunk.  That  was  why  he  dropped  bazar- 
rum  and  took  to  the  Black  Smoke  instead.  Later  on,  he 
came  up  north  and  opened  the  Gate  as  a  house  where 
you  could  get  your  smoke  in  peace  and  quiet.  Mind 
you,  it  was  a  pukka,  respectable  opium-house,  and  not 
one  of  those  stifling,  sweltering  chandoo-khanas,  that  you 
can  find  all  over  the  City.    No ;  the  old  man  knew  his  busi- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  191 

ness  thoroughly,  and  he  was  most  clean  for  a  Chinaman. 
He  was  a  one-eyed  little  chap,  not  much  more  than  five 
feet  high,  and  both  his  middle  fingers  werie  gone.  All 
the  same,  he  was  the  handiest  man  at  rolling  black  pills 
I  have  ever  seen.  Never  seemed  to  be  touched  by  the 
Smoke,  either;  and  what  he  took  day  and  night,  night 
and  day,  was  a  caution.  I've  been  at  it  five  years,  and  I 
can  do  my  fair  share  of  the  Smoke  with  any  one;  but  I 
was  a  child  to  Fung-Tching  that  way.  All  the  same, 
the  old  man  was  keen  on  his  money:  very  keen;  and 
that's  what  I  can't  understand.  I  heard  he  saved  a  good 
deal  before  he  died,  but  his  nephew  has  got  all  that  now; 
and  the  old  man'^  gone  back  to  China  to  be  buried. 

He  kept  the  big  upper  room,  where  his  best  customers 
gathered,  as  neat  as  a  new  pin.  In  one  corner  used  to 
stand  Fung-Tching's  Joss — almost  as  ugly  as  Fung- 
Tching — and  there  were  always  sticks  burning  under 
his  nose;  but  you  never  smelt  'em  when  the  pipes  were 
going  thick.  Opposite  the  Joss  was  Fung-Tching's 
coffin.  He  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  savings  on  that, 
and  whenever  a  new  man  came  to  the  Gate  he  was  always 
introduced  to  it.  It  was  lacquered  black,  with  red  and  gold 
writings  on  it,  and  I've  heard  that  Fung-Tching  brought 
it  out  all  the  way  from  China.  I  don't  know  whether 
that's  true  or  not,  but  I  know  that,  if  I  came  first  in  the 
evening,  I  used  to  spj-ead  my  mat  just  at  the  foot  of  it. 
It  was  a  quiet  corner,  you  see,  and  a  sort  of  breeze  from 
the  gully  came  in  at  the  window  now  and  then.  Besides 
the  mats,  there  was  no  other  furniture  in  the  room — 
only  the  coffin,  and  the  old  Joss  all  green  and  blue  and 
purple  with  age  and  polish. 

Fung-Tching  never  told  us  why  he  called  the  place 
"The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows."    (He  was  the  only 


192  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Chinaman  I  know  who  used  bad-sounding  fancy  names. 
Most  of  them  are  flowery.  As  you'll  see  in  Calcutta.) 
We  used  to  find  that  out  for  ourselves.  Nothing  grows 
on  you  so  much,  if  you're  white,  as  the  Black  Smoke. 
A  yellow  man  is  made  different.  Opium  doesn't  tell  on 
him  scarcely  at  all;  but  white  and  black  suffer  a  good 
deal.  Of  course,  there  are  some  people  that  the  Smoke 
doesn't  touch  any  more  than  tobacco  would  at  first. 
They  just  doze  a  bit,  as  one  would  fall  asleep  naturally, 
and  next  morning  they  are  almost  fit  for  work.  Now,  I 
was  one  of  that  sort  when  I  began,  but  I've  been  at  it 
for  five  years  pretty  steadily,  and  it's  different  now. 
There  was  an  old  aunt  of  mine,  down  Agra  way,  and  she 
left  me  a  little  at  her  death.  About  sixty  rupees  a  month 
secured.  Sixty  isn't  much.  I  can  recollect  a  time, 
'seems  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  ago,  that  I  was 
getting  my  three  hundred  a  month,  and  pickings,  when 
I  was  working  on  a  big  timber-contract  in  Calcutta. 

I  didn't  stick  to  that  work  for  long.  The  Black  Smoke 
does  not  allow  of  much  other  business;  and  even  though 
I  am  very  little  affected  by  it,  as  men  go  I  couldn't  do  a 
daj^'s  work  now  to  save  my  life.  After  all,  sixty  rupees  is 
what  I  want.  When  old  Fung-Tching  was  alive  he  used 
to  draw  the  money  for  me,  give  me  about  half  of  it  to 
live  on  (I  eat  very  little),  and  the  rest  he  kept  himself. 
I  was  free  of  the  Gate  at  any  time  of  the  day  and  night, 
and  could  smoke  and  sleep  there  when  I  liked,  so  I  didn't 
care.  I  know  the  old  man  made  a  good  thing  out  of  it; 
but  that's  no  matter.  Nothing  matters  much  to  me;  and 
besides,  the  money  always  came  fresh  and  fresh  each 
month. 

There  was  ten  of  us  met  at  the  Gate  when  the  place 
was  first  opened.     Me,  and  two  Baboos  from  a  Govern- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I93 

ment  Office  somewhere  in  Anarkulli,  but  they  got  the 
sack  and  couldn't  pay  (no  man  who  has  to  work  in  the 
daylight  can  go  to  the  Black  Smoke  for  any  length  of 
time  straight  on);  a  Chinaman  that  was  Fung-Tching's 
nephew;  a  bazar- w-oman  that  had  got  a  lot  of  money 
somehow;  an  English  loafer — MacSomebody  I  think, 
but  I  have  forgotten, — that  smoked  heaps,  but  never 
seemed  to  pay  anything  (they  said  he  had  saved  Fung- 
Tching's  life  at  some  trial  in  Calcutta  when  he  was  a 
barrister);  another  Eurasian,  like  myself,  from  Madras; 
a  half-caste  woman,  and  a  couple  of  men  who  said  they 
had  come  from  the  North.  I  think  they  must  have  been 
Persians  or  Afghans  or  something.  There  are  not  more 
than  five  of  us  living  now,  but  we  come  regular.  I  don't 
know  what  happened  to  the  Baboos;  but  the  bazar- 
woman  she  died  after  six  months  of  the  Gate,  and  I 
think  Fung-Tching  took  her  bangles  and  nose-ring  for 
himself.  But  I'm  not  certain.  The  Englishman,  he 
drank  as  well  as  smoked,  and  he  dropped  off.  One  of  the 
Persians  got  killed  in  a  row  at  night  by  the  big  well  near 
the  mosque  a  long  time  ago,  and  the  Police  shut  up  the 
well,  because  they  said  it  was  full  of  foul  air.  They  found 
him  dead  at  the  bottom  of  it.  So  you  see,  there  is  only 
me,  the  Chinaman,  the  half-caste  woman  that  we  call  the 
Memsahib  (she  used  to  live  with  Fung-Tching),  the  other 
Eurasian,  and  one  of  the  Persians.  The  Memsahib  looks 
very  old  now.  I  think  she  was  a  young  woman  when 
the  Gate  was  opened;  but  we  are  all  old  for  the  matter 
of  that.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  old.  It  is 
very  hard  to  keep  count  of  time  in  the  Gate,  and,  besides, 
time  doesn't  matter  to  me.  I  draw  my  sixty  rupees  fresh 
and  fresh  every  month.  A  very,  very  long  while  ago, 
when  I  used  to  be  getting  three  hundred  and  fifty  rupees 

13 


194 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


a  month,  and  pickings,  on  a  big-  timber-contract  at  Cal- 
cutta, I  had  a  wife  of  sorts.  But  she's  dead  now.  People 
said  that  I  killed  her  by  taking  to  the  Black  Smoke. 
Perhaps  I  did,  but  it's  so  long  since  that  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter. Sometimes  when  I  first  came  to  the  Gate,  I  used  to 
feel  sorry  for  it;  but  that's  all  over  and  done  with  long 
ago,  and  I  draw  my  sixty  rupees  fresh  and  fresh  every 
month,  and  am  quite  happy.  Not  drunk  happy,  you 
know,  but  always  quiet  and  soothed  and  contented. 

How  did  I  take  to  it?  It  began  at  Calcutta.  I  used 
to  try  it  in  my  own  house,  just  to  see  what  it  was  like. 
I  never  went  very  far,  but  I  think  my  wife  must  have 
died  then.  Anyhow,  I  found  myself  here,  and  got  to 
know  Fung-Tching.  I  don't  remember  rightly  how  that 
came  about;  but  he  told  me  of  the  Gate  and  I  used  to  go 
there,  and,  somehow,  I  have  never  got  away  from  it 
since.  Mind  you,  though,  the  Gate  was  a  respectable 
place  in  Fung-Tching's  time  where  you  could  be  com- 
fortable, and  not  at  all  like  the  chandoo-khanas  where 
the  niggers  go.  No;  it  was  clean  and  quiet,  and  not 
crowded.  Of  course,  there  were  others  beside  us  ten 
and  the  man;  but  we  always  had  a  mat  apiece,  with  a 
wadded  woollen  headpiece,  all  covered  with  black  and 
red  dragons  and  things;  just  like  the  cofifin  in  the  cor- 
ner. 

At  the  end  of  one's  third  pipe  the  dragons  used  to 
move  about  and  fight.  I've  watched  'em  many  and  many 
a  night  through.  I  used  to  regulate  my  Smoke  that  way, 
and  now  it  takes  a  dozen  pipes  to  make  'em  stir.  Be- 
sides, they  are  all  torn  and  dirty,  like  the  mats,  and  old 
Fung-Tching  is  dead.  He  died  a  couple  of  years  ago, 
and  gave  me  the  pipe  I  always  use  now — a  silver  one, 
with  queer  beasts  crawling  up  and  down  the  receiver- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THf^  HILLS.  I95 

bottle  below  the  cup.  Before  that,  I  think,  I  used  a  big 
bamboo  stem  with  a  copper  cup,  a  very  small  one,  and  a 
green  jade  mouthpiece.  It  was  a  little  thicker  than  a 
walking-stick  stem,  and  smoked  sweet,  very  sweet.  The 
bamboo  seemed  to  suck  up  the  smoke.  Silver  doesn't, 
and  I've  got  to  clean  it  out  now  and  then,  that's  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,  but  I  smoke  it  for  the  old  man's  sake. 
He  must  have  made  a  good  thing  out  of  me,  but  he  al- 
ways gave  me  clean  mats  and  pillows,  and  the  best  stuflf 
you  could  get  anywhere. 

When  he  died,  his  nephew  Tsin-ling  took  up  the  Gate, 
and  he  called  it  the  "Temple  of  the  Three  Possessions;" 
but  we  old  ones  speak  of  it  as  the  "Hundred  Sorrows," 
all  the  same.  The  nephew  does  things  very  shabbily,  and 
I  think  the  Memsahib  must  help  him.  She  lives  with 
him;  same  as  she  used  to  do  with  the  old  man.  The  two 
let  in  all  sorts  of  low  people,  niggers  and  all,  and  the 
Black  Smoke  isn't  as  good  as  it  used  to  be.  I've  found 
burnt  bran  in  my  pipe  over  and  over  again.  The  old 
man  would  have  died  if  that  had  happened  in  his  time. 
Besides,  the  room  is  never  cleaned,  and  all  the  mats 
are  torn  and  cut  at  the  edges.  The  coflfin  is  gone — gone 
to  China  again — with  the  old  man  and  two  ounces  of 
Smoke  inside  it,  in  case  he  should  want  'em  on  the  way. 

The  Joss  doesn't  get  so  many  sticks  burnt  under  his 
nose  as  he  used  to;  that's  a  sign  of  ill-luck,  as  sure  as 
Death.  He's  all  brown,  too,  and  no  one  ever  attends  to 
him.  That's  the  Memsahib's  work,  I  know;  because, 
when  Tsin-ling  tried  to  burn  gilt  paper  before  him,  she 
said  it  was  a  waste  of  money,  and,  if  he  kept  a  stick  burn- 
ing very  slowly,  the  Joss  wouldn't  know  the  difference. 
So  now  we've  got  the  sticks  mixed  with  a  lot  of  glue, 
and  they  take  half  an  hour  longer  to  burn,  and  smell 


196  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

stinkv.  Let  alone  the  smell  of  the  room  by  itself.  No 
business  can  get  on  if  they  try  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
Joss  doesn't  like  it.  I  can  see  that.  Late  at  night,  some- 
times, he  turns  all  sorts  of  queer  colors — blue  and  green 
and  red — just  as  he  used  to  do  when  old  Fung-Tching 
was  alive;  and  he  rolls  his  eyes  and  stamps  his  feet  like  a 
devil. 

I  don't  know  why  I  don't  leave  the  place  and  smoke 
quietly  in  a  little  room  of  my  own  in  the  bazar.  Most 
like,  Tsin-ling  would  kill  me  if  I  went  away — he  draws 
my  sixty  rupees  now — and  besides,  it's  so  much  trouble, 
and  I've  grown  to  be  very  fond  of  the  Gate.  It's  not 
much  to  look  at.  Not  what  it  was  in  the  old  man's  time, 
but  I  couldn't  leave  it,  I've  seen  so  many  come  in  and 
out.  And  I've  seen  so  many  die  here  on  the  mats  that 
I  should  be  afraid  of  dying  in  the  open  now.  I've  seen 
some  things  that  people  would  call  strange  enough;  but 
nothing  is  strange  when  you're  on  the  Black  Smoke,  ex- 
cept the  Black  Smoke.  And  if  it  was,  it  wouldn't  mat- 
ter. Fung-Tching  used  to  be  very  particular  about  his 
people,  and  never  got  in  any  one  who'd  give  trouble  by 
dying  messy  and  such.  But  the  nephew  isn't  half  so  care- 
ful. He  tells  everywhere  that  he  keeps  a  "first-chop" 
house.  Never  tries  to  get  men  in  quietly,  and  make  them 
comfortable  like  Fung-Tching  did.  That's  why  the  Gate 
is  getting  a  little  bit  more  known  than  it  used  to  be. 
Among  the  niggers  of  course.  The  nephew  daren't  get 
a  white,  or,  for  matter  of  that,  a  mixed  skin  into  the 
place.  He  has  to  keep  us  three  of  course — me  and  the 
Memsahib  and  the  other  Eurasian.  We're  fixtures.  But 
he  wouldn't  give  us  credit  for  a  pipeful — not  for  any- 
thing. 

One  of  these  days,  I  hope,  I  shall  die  in  the  Gate.    The 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  IQ7 

Persian  and  the  Madras  man  are  terribly  shaky  now. 
They've  got  a  boy  to  h'ght  their  pipes  for  them.  I  al- 
ways do  that  myself.  Most  like,  I  shall  see  them  carried 
out  before  me.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  outlive  the 
Memsahib  or  Tsin-ling.  Women  last  longer  than  men 
at  the  Black  Smoke,  and  Tsin-ling  has  a  deal  of  the  old 
man's  blood  in  him,  though  he  does  smoke  cheap  stuff. 
The  bazar-woman  knew  when  she  was  going  two  days 
before  her  time;  and  she  died  on  a  clean  mat  with  a 
nicely  wadded  pillow,  and  the  old  man  hung  up  her  pipe 
just  above  the  Joss.  He  was  always  fond  of  her,  I  fancy. 
But  he  took  her  bangles  just  the  same. 

I  should  like  to  die  like  the  bazar-woman — on  a  clean, 
cool  mat  with  a  pipe  of  good  stufif  between  my  lips. 
When  I  feel  I'm  going,  I  shall  ask  Tsin-ling  for  them, 
and  he  can  draw  my  sixty  rupees  a  month,  fresh  and 
fresh,  as  long  as  he  pleases.  Then  I  shall  lie  back,  quiet 
and  comfortable,  and  watch  the  black  and  red  dragons 
have  their  last  big  fight  together;   and  then.  . .  . 

Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nothing  matters  much  to 
me — only  I  wish  Tsin-ling  wouldn't  put  bran  into  the 
Black  Smoke. 


198  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THE  STORY  OF  MUHAMMAD  DIN. 

Who  is  the  happy  man?  He  that  sees  in  his  own  house  at 
home,  little  children  crowned  with  dust,  leaping  and  falling 
and  crying. — Munichandra,  translated  by  Professor  Peterson. 

The  polo-ball  was  an  old  one,  scarred,  chipped,  and 
dinted.  It  stood  on  the  mantelpiece  among  the  pipe- 
stems  which  Imam  Din,  khitmatgar,  was  cleaning  for  me. 

"Does  the  Heaven-born  want  this  ball?"  said  Imam 
Din,  deferentially. 

The  Heaven-born  set  no  partictilar  store  by  it:  but  of 
what  use  was  a  polo-ball  to  a  khitmatgar? 

"By  your  Honor's  favor,  I  have  a  little  son.  He  has 
seen  this  ball,  and  desires  it  to  play  with.  I  do  not  want 
it  for  myself." 

No  one  would  for  an  instant  accuse  portly  old  Imam 
Din  of  wanting  to  play  with  polo-balls.  He  carried  out 
the  battered  thing  into  the  varandah:  and  there  followed 
a  hurricane  of  joyful  squeaks,  a  patter  of  small  feet,  and 
the  thud-thud-thud  of  the  ball  rolling  along  the  ground. 
Evidently  the  little  son  had  been  waiting  outside  the  door 
to  secure  his  treasure.  But  how  had  he  managed  to  see 
that  polo-ball? 

Next  day,  coming  back  from  office  half  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual,  I  was  aware  of  a  small  figure  in  the  dining- 
room — a  tiny,  plump  figure  in  a  ridiculously  inadequate 
shirt  which  came,  perhaps,  half-way  down  the  tubby 
stomach.  It  Avandered  round  the  room,  thumb  in  mouth, 
crooning  to  itself  as  it  took  stock  of  the  pictures.  Un- 
doubtedly this  was  the  "little  son." 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  I99 

He  had  no  business  in  my  room,  of  course;  but  was  so 
deeply  absorbed  in  his  discoveries  that  he  never  noticed 
me  in  the  doorway.  I  stepped  into  the  room  and  startled 
him  nearly  into  a  fit.  He  sat  down  on  the  ground  with 
a  gasp.  His  eyes  opened,  and  his  mouth  followed  suit. 
I  knew  what  was  coming,  and  fled,  followed  by  a  long, 
dry  howl  which  reached  the  servants'  quarters  far  more 
quickly  than  any  command  of  mine  had  ever  done.  In  ten 
seconds  Imam  Din  was  in  the  dining-room.  Then  des- 
pairing sobs  arose,  and  I  returned  to  find  Imam  Din  ad- 
monishing the  small  sinner  who  was  using  most  of  his 
shirt  as  a  handkerchief. 

"This  boy,"  said  Imam  Din  judicially,  "is  a  budmash — 
a  big  budmash.  He  will,  without  doubt,  go  to  the  jail- 
khana  for  his  behavior."  Renewed  yells  from  the  peni- 
tent, and  an  elaborate  apology  to  myself  from  Imam  Din. 

"Tell  the  baby,"  said  I,  "that  the  Sahib  is  not  angry, 
and  take  him  away."  Imam  Din  conveyed  my  forgive- 
ness to  the  oflfender,  who  had  now  gathered  all  his  shirt 
round  his  neck,  stringwise,  and  the  yell  subsided  into  a 
sob.  The  two  set  ofT  for  the  door.  "His  name,"  said 
Imam  Din,  as  though  the  name  were  part  of  the  crime, 
"is  Muhammad  Din,  and  he  is  a  budmash."  Freed 
from  present  danger,  Muhammad  Din  turned  round  in 
his  father's  arms,  and  said  gravely,  "It  is  true  that  my 
name  is  Muhammad  Din,  Tahib,  but  I  am  not  a  bud- 
mash.    I  am  a  man." 

From  that  day  dated  my  acquaintance  with  Muham- 
mad Din.  Never  again  did  he  come  into  my  dining- 
room,  but  on  the  neutral  ground  of  the  garden,  we 
greeted  each  other  with  much  state,  though  our  conversa- 
tion was  confined  to  "Talaam,  Tahib"  from  his  side,  and 
"Salaam,  Muhammad  Din"  from  mine.    Daily  on  my  re- 


200  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

turn  from  office,  the  little  white  shirt,  and  the  fat  little 
body  used  to  rise  from  the  shade  of  the  creeper-covered 
trellis  where  they  had  been  hid ;  and  daily  I  checked  my 
horse  here,  that  my  salutation  might  not  be  slurred  over 
or  given  unseemly. 

Muhammad  Din  never  had  any  companions.  He  used 
to  trot  about  the  compound,  in  and  out  of  the  castor-oil 
bushes,  on  mysterious  errands  of  his  own.  One  day  I 
stumbled  upon  some  of  his  handiwork  far  down  the 
grounds.  He  had  half  buried  the  polo-ball  in  dust,  and 
stuck  six  shrivelled  old  marigold  flowers  in  a  circle  round 
it.  Outside  that  circle  again  was  a  rude  square,  traced 
out  in  bits  of  red  brick  alternating  with  fragments  of 
broken  china;  the  whole  bounded  by  a  little  bank  of  dust. 
The  water-man  from  the  well-curb  put  in  a  plea  for  the 
small  architect,  saying  that  it  was  only  the  play  of  a  baby 
and  did  not  much  disfigure  my  garden. 

Heaven  knows  that  I  had  no  intention  of  touching  the 
child's  work  then  or  later;  but,  that  evening,  a  stroll 
through  the  garden  brought  me  unawares  full  on  it; 
so  that  I  trampled,  before  I  knew,  marigold-heads,  dust- 
bank,  and  fragments  of  broken  soap-dish  into  confusion 
past  all  hope  of  mending.  Next  morning  I  came  upon 
Muhammad  Din  crying  softly  to  himself  over  the  ruin  I 
had  wrought.  Some  one  had  cruelly  told  him  that  the 
Sahib  was  very  angry  with  him  for  spoiling  the  garden, 
and  had  scattered  his  rubbish,  using  bad  language  the 
while.  Muhammad  Din  labored  for  an  hour  at  effacing 
every  trace  of  the  dust-bank  and  pottery  fragments,  and 
it  was  with  a  tearful  and  apologetic  face  that  he  said,  "Ta- 
laam,  Tahib,"  when  I  came  home  from  office.  A  hasty 
inquiry  resulted  in  Imam  Din  informing  Muhammad 
Din  that,  by  my  singular  favor,  he  was  permitted  to  dis- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  20I 

port  himself  as  he  pleased.  Whereat  the  child  took  heart 
and  fell  to  tracing  the  ground-plan  of  an  edifice  which 
was  to  eclipse  the  marigold-polo-ball  creation. 

For  some  months,  the  chubby  little  eccentricity  re- 
volved in  his  humble  orbit  among  the  castor-oil  bushes 
and  in  the  dust;  always  fashioning  magnificent  palaces 
from  stale  flowers  thrown  away  by  the  bearer,  smooth 
water-worn  pebbles,  bits  of  broken  glass,  and  feathers 
pulled,  I  fancy,  from  my  fowls — always  alone,  and  always 
crooning  to  himself. 

A  gaily-spotted  sea-shell  was  dropped  one  day  close 
to  the  last  of  his  little  buildings ;  and  I  looked  that  Mu- 
hammad Din  should  build  something  more  than  ordinar- 
ily splendid  oil  the  strength  of  it.  Nor  was  I  disap- 
pointed. He  meditated  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour, 
and  his  crooning  rose  to  a  jubilant  song.  Then  he  began 
tracing  in  the  dust.  It  would  certainly  be  a  wondrous 
palace,  this  one,  for  it  was  two  yards  long  and  a  yard 
broad  in  ground-plan.  But  the  oalace  was  never  com- 
pleted. 

Next  day  there  was  no  Muhammad  Din  at  the  head  of 
the  carriage-drive,  and  no  "Talaam,  Tahib"  to  welcome 
my  return.  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  greeting, 
and  its  omission  troubled  me.  Next  day  Imam  Din  told 
me  that  the  child  was  suffering  slightly  from  fever  and 
needed  quinine.  He  got  the  medicine,  and  an  English 
Doctor. 

"They  have  no  stamina,  these  brats,"  said  the  Doctor, 
as  he  left  Imam  Din's  quarters. 

A  week  later,  though  I  would  have  given  much  to  have 
avoided  it,  I  met  on  the  road  to  the  Mussulman  burying- 
ground  Imam  Din,  accompanied  by  one  other  friend, 
carrying  in  his  arms,  wrapped  in  a  white  cloth,  all  that 
was  left  of  little  Muhammad  Din. 


202  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


.  ON  THE  STRENGTH  OF  A  LIKENESS. 

If  your  mirror  be  broken,  look  into  still  water;  but  have  a 
care  that  you  do  not  fall  in. — Hindu  Proverb. 

Next  to  a  requited  attachment,  one  of  the  most  con- 
venient things  that  a  young  man  can  carry  about  v^ith 
him  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  is  an  unrequited  at- 
tachment. It  makes  him  feel  important  and  business-like, 
and  blase,  and  cynical;  and  whenever  he  has  a  touch  of 
liver,  or  suffers  from  want  of  exercise,  he  can  mourn  over 
his  lost  love,  and  be  very  happy  in  a  tender,  twilight 
fashion. 

Hannasyde's  affair  of  the  heart  had  been  a  godsend 
to  him.  It  was  four  years  old,  and  the  girl  had  long  since 
given  up  thinking  of  it.  She  had  married  and  had  many 
cares  of  her  own.  In  the  beginning,  she  had  told  Han- 
nasyde  that,  "while  she  could  never  be  anything  more 
than  a  sister  to  him,  she  would  always  take  the  deepest 
interest  in  his  welfare."  This  startlingly  new  and  original 
remark  gave  Hannasyde  something  to  think  over  for  two 
years;  and  his  own  vanity  filled  in  the  other  twenty-four 
months.  Hannasyde  was  quite  different  from  Phil  Gar- 
ron,  but,  none  the  less,  had  several  points  in  common 
with  that  far  too  lucky  man. 

He  kept  his  unrequited  attachment  by  him  as  men 
keep  a  well-smoked  pipe — for  comfort's  sake,  and  because 
it  had  grown  dear  in  the  using.  It  brought  him  happily 
through  one  Simla  season.  Hannasyde  was  not  lovely. 
There  was  a  crudity  in  his  manners,  and  a  roughness  in 
the  way  in  which  he  helped  a  lady  on  to  her  horse,  that 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  203 

did  not  attract  the  other  sex  to  him.  Even  if  he  had  cast 
about  for  their  favor,  which  he  did  not.  He  kept  his 
wounded  heart  all  to  himself  for  a  while. 

Then  trouble  came  to  him.  All  who  go  to  Simla  know 
the  slope  from  the  Telegraph  to  the  Public  Works  Office, 
Hannasyde  was  loafing  up  the  hill,  one  September  morn- 
ing between  calling  hours,  when  a  'rickshaw  came  down 
in  a  hurry,  and  in  the  'rickshaw  sat  the  living,  breathing 
image  of  the  girl  who  had  made  him  so  happily  unhappy. 
Hannasyde  leaned  against  the  railings  and  gasped.  He 
wanted  to  run  downhill  after  the  'rickshaw,  but  that  was 
impossible;  so  he  went  forward  with  most  of  his  blood  in 
his  temples.  It  was  impossible,  for  many  reasons,  that 
the  woman  in  the  'rickshaw  could  be  the  girl  he  had 
known.  Sbe  was,  he  discovered  later,  the  wife  of  a  man 
from  Dindigul,  or  Coimbatore,  or  some  out-of-the-way 
place,  and  she  had  come  up  to  Simla  early  in  the  season 
for  the  good  of  her  health.  She  was  going  back  to  Din- 
digul, or  wherever  it  was,  at  the  end  of  the  season;  and 
in  all  likelihood  would  never  return  to  Simla  again;  her 
proper  Hill-station  being  Ootacamund.  That  night  Han- 
nasyde, raw  and  savage  from  the  raking  up  of  all  old 
feelings,  took  counsel  with  himself  for  one  measured 
hour.  What  he  decided  upon  was  this;  and  you  must 
decide  for  yourself  how  much  genuine  afifection  for  the 
old  Love,  and  how  much  a  very  natural  inclination  to  go 
abroad  and  enjoy  himself,  afifected  the  decision.  Mrs.' 
Landys-Haggert  would  never  in  all  human  likelihood 
cross  his  path  again.  So  whatever  he  did  didn't  much 
matter.  She  was  marvellously  like  the  girl  who  "took  a 
deep  interest"  and  the  rest  of  the  formula.  All  things 
considered,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  and  for  a  little  time — • 


204  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

only  a  very  little  time — to  make  believe  that  he  was  with 
Alice  Chisane  again.  Everyone  is  more  or  less  mad  on 
one  point.  Hannasyde's  particular  monomania  was  his 
old  love,  Alice  Chisane. 

He  made  it  his  business  to  get  introduced  to  Mrs.  Hag- 
gert,  and  the  introduction  prospered.  He  also  made  it 
his  business  to  see  as  much  as  he  could  of  that  lady. 
When  a  man  is  in  earnest  as  to  interviews,  the  facilities 
which  Simla  offers  are  startling.  There  are  garden-par- 
ties, and  tennis-parties,  and  picnics,  and  luncheons  at 
Annandale,  and  rifle-matches,  and  dinners  and  balls;  be- 
sides rides  and  walks,  which  are  matters  of  private  ar- 
rangement. Hannasyde  had  started  with  the  intention 
of  seeing  a  likeness,  and  he  ended  by  doing  much  more. 
He  wanted  to  be  deceived,  he  meant  to  be  deceived,  and 
he  deceived  himself  very  thoroughly.  Not  only  were  the 
face  and  figure  the  face  and  figure  of  Alice  Chisane,  but 
the  voice  and  lower  tones  were  exactly  the  same,  and  so 
were  the  turns  of  speech ;  and  the  little  mannerisms,  that 
every  woman  has,  of  gait  and  gesticulation,  were  abso- 
lutely and  identically  the  same.  The  turn  of  the  head 
was  the  same;  the  tired  look  in  the  eyes  at  the  end  of  a 
long  walk  was  the  same;  the  stoop-and-wrench  over  the 
saddle  to  hold  in  a  pulling  horse  was  the  same;  and  once, 
most  marvelous  of  all,  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  singing  to 
herself  in  the  next  room,  while  Hannasyde  was  waiting 
to  take  her  for  a  ride,  hummed,  note  for  note,  with  a 
throaty  quiver  of  the  voice  in  the  second  line,  "Poor  Wan- 
dering One!"  exactly  as  Alice  Chisane  had  hummed  it 
for  Hannasyde  in  the  dusk  of  an  English  drawing-room. 
In  the  actual  woman  herself — in  the  soul  of  her — there 
was  not  the  least  likeness;  she  and  Alice  Chisane  being 
cast  in  different  moulds.     But  all  that  Hannasyde  wanted 


PLAIN  TA'LES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  20$ 

to  know  and  see  and  think  about,  was  this  maddening 
and  perplexing  likeness  of  face  and  voice  and  manner. 
He  was  bent  on  making  a  fool  of  himself  that  way;  and  he 
was  in  no  sort  disappointed. 

Open  and  obvious  devotion  from  any  sort  of  man  is 
always  pleasant  to  any  sort  of  woman ;  but  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert,  being  a  woman  of  the  world,  could  make  noth- 
ing of  Hannasyde's  admiration. 

He  would  take  any  amount  of  trouble — he  was  a  selfish 
man  habitually — ^to  meet  and  forestall,  if  possible,  her 
wishes.  Anything  she  told  him  to  do  was  law;  and  he 
was,  there  could  be  no  doubting  it,  fond  of  her  company 
so  long  as  she  talked  to  him,  and  kept  on  talking  about 
trivialities.  But  when  she  launched  into  expression  of 
her  personal  views  and  her  wrongs,  those  small  social 
differences  that  make  the  spice  of  Simla  life,  Hannasyde 
was  neither  pleased  nor  interested.  He  didn't  want  to 
know  anything  about  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  or  her  ex- 
periences in  the  past — she  had  traveled  nearly  all  over 
the  world,  and  could  talk  cleverly — he  wanted  the  like- 
ness of  Alice  Chisane  before  his  eyes  and  her  voice  in 
his  ears.  Anything  outside  that,  reminding  him  of 
another  personality,  jarred,  and  he  showed  that  it  did. 

Under  the  new  Post  Office,  one  evening,  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert  turned  on  him,  and  spoke  her  mind  shortly  and 
without  warning.  "Mr.  Hannasyde,"  said  she,  "will  you 
be  good  enough  to  explain  why  you  have  appointed  your- 
self my  special  cavalier  servente?  I  don't  understand  it. 
But  I  am  perfectly  certain,  somehow  or  other,  that  you 
don't  care  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world  for  me."  This 
seems  to  support,  by  the  way,  the  theory  that  no  man  can 
act  or  tell  lies  to  a  woman  without  being  found  out.  Han- 
nasyde was  taken  off  his  guard.     His  defense  never  was 


206  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

a  strong  one,  because  he  was  always  thinking  of  himself, 
and  he  blurted  out,  before  he  knew  what  he  was  saying, 
this  inexpedient  answer,  "No  more  do  I." 

The  queerness  of  the  situation  and  the  reply,  made 
Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  laugh.  Then  it  all  came  out;  and 
at  the  end  of  Hannasyde's  lucid  explanation  Mrs.  Hag- 
gert  said,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice, 
"So  I'm  to  act  as  the  lay-figure  for  you  to  hang  the  rags 
of  your  tattered  affections  on,  am  I?" 

Hannasyde  didn't  see  what  answer  was  required,  and 
he  devoted  himself  generally  and  vaguely  to  the  praise 
of  Alice  Chisane,  which  was  unsatisfactory.  Now  it  is 
to  be  thoroughly  made  clear  that  Mrs.  Haggert  had  not 
the  shadow  of  a  ghost  of  an  interest  in  Hannasyde.  Only 
only  no  woman  likes  being  made  love  through 

instead  of  to specially  on  behalf  of  a  musty  divinity  of 

four  years'  standing. 

Hannasyde  did  not  see  that  he  had  made  any  very  par- 
ticular exhibition  of  himself.  He  was  glad  to  find  a  sym- 
pathetic soul  in  the  arid  wastes  of  Simla. 

When  the  season  ended,  Hannasyde  went  down  to  his 
own  place  and  Mrs.  Haggert  to  hers.  "It  was  like  mak- 
ing love  to  a  ghost,"  said  Hannasyde  to  himself,  "and  it 
doesn't  matter;  and  now  I'll  get  to  my  work."  But  he 
found  himself  thinking  steadily  of  the  Haggert-Chisane 
ghost;  and  he  could  not  be  certain  whether  it  was  Hag- 
gert or  Chisane  that  made  up  the  greater  part  of  the 
pretty  phantom. 

He  got  understanding  a  month  later. 

A  peculiar  point  of  this  peculiar  country  is  the  way  in 
which  a  heartless  Government  transfers  men  from  one 
end  of  the  Empire  to  the  other.     You  can  never  be  sure 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  207 

of  getting  rid  of  a  friend  or  an  enemy  till  he  or  she  dies. 
There  was  a  case  once — but  that's  another  story. 

Haggert's  department  ordered  him  up  from  Dindigul 
to  the  Frontier  at  two  days'  notice,  and  he  went  through, 
losing  money  at  every  step,  from  Dindigul  to  his  station. 
He  dropped  Mrs.  Haggert  at  Lucknow,  to  stay  with  some 
friends  there,  to  take  part  in  a  big  ball  at  the  Chutter 
Munzil,  and  to  come  on  when  he  had  made  the  new  home 
a  little  comfortable.  Lucknow  was  Hannasyde's  station, 
and  Mrs.  Haggert  stayed  a  week  there.  Hannasyde  went 
to  meet  her.  As  the  train  came  in,  he  discovered  what 
he  had  been  thinking  of  for  the  past  month.  The  un- 
wisdom of  his  conduct  also  struck  him.  The  Lucknow 
week,  with  two  dances,  and  an  unlimited  quantity  of  rides 
together,  clinched  matters ;  and  Hannasyde  found  himself 
pacing  this  circle  of  thought: — He  adored  Alice  Chisane, 
at  least  he  had  adored  her.  And  he  admired  Mrs.  Lan- 
dys-Haggert  because  she  was  like  Alice  Chisane.  But 
Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  was  not  in  the  least  like  Alice  Chis- 
ane, being  a  thousand  times  more  adorable.  Now  Alice 
Chisane  was  "the  bride  of  another,"  and  so  was  Mrs. 
Landys-Haggert,  and  a  good  and  honest  wife  too.  There- 
fore he,  Hannasyde,  was  .  .  .  here  he  called  himself 
several  hard  names,  and  wished  that  he  had  been  wise  in 
the  beginning. 

Whether  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  saw  what  was  going  on 
in  his  mind,  she  alone  knows.  He  seemed  to  take  an 
unqualified  interest  in  everything  connected  with  herself, 
as  distinguished  from  the  Alice-Chisane  likeness,  and  he 
said  one  or  two  things  which,  if  Alice  Chisane  had  been 
still  betrothed  to  him,  could  scarcely  have  been  excused, 
even  on  the  grounds  of  the  likeness.  But  Mrs.  Haggert 
turned  the  remarks  aside,  and  spent  a  long  time  in  mak- 


2o8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

ing  Hannasyde  see  what  a  comfort  and  a  pleasure  she 
had  been  to  him  because  of  her  strange  resemblance  to 
his  old  love.  Hannasyde  groaned  in  his  saddle  and  said, 
"Yes,  indeed,"  and  busied  himself  with  preparations  for 
her  departure  to  the  Frontier,  feeling  very  small  and  mis- 
erable 

The  last  day  of  her  stay  at  Lucknow  came,  and  Han- 
nasyde saw  her  oflf  at  the  Railway  Station.  She  was  very 
grateful  for  his  kindness  and  the  trouble  he  had  taken, 
and  smiled  pleasantly  and  sympathetically  as  one  who 
knew  the  Alice-Chisane  reason  of  that  kindness.  And 
Hannasyde  abused  the  coolies  with  the  luggage,  and 
hustled  the  people  on  the  platform,  and  prayed  that  the 
roof  might  fall  in  and  slay  him. 

As  the  train  went  out  slowly,  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert 
leaned  out  of  the  window  to  say  good-bye — "On  second 
thoughts  au  revoir,  Mr.  Hannasyde.  I  go  Home  in  the 
Spring,  and  perhaps  I  may  meet  you  in  Town." 

Hannasyde  shook  hands,  and  said  very  earnestly  and 
adoringly — "I  hope  to  Heaven  I  shall  never  see  your 
face  again!" 

And  Mrs.  Haggert  understood. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILL8.  209 


WRESSLEY  OF  THE  FOREIGN  OFFICE. 

I  closed  and  drew  for  my  Love's  sake. 

That  now  Is  false  to  me. 
And  I  slew  the  Riever  of  Tarrant  Moss, 

And  set  Dumeny  free. 

And  ever  they  give  me  praise  and  gold. 

And  ever  I  moan  my  loss; 
For  I  struck  the  blow  for  my  false  Love's  sake. 

And  not  for  the  men  of  the  Moss! 

— Tarrant  Moss. 

One  of  the  many  curses  of  our  life  in  India  is  the  want 
of  atmosphere  in  the  painter's  sense.  There  are  no  half- 
tints  worth  noticing.  Men  stand  out  all  crude  and  raw, 
with  nothing  to  tone  them  down,  and  nothing  to  scale 
them  against.  They  do  their  work,  and  grow  to  think 
that  there  is  nothing  but  their  work,  and  nothing  like 
their  work,  and  that  they  are  the  real  pivots  on  which  the 
Administration  turns.  Here  is  an  instance  of  this  feel- 
ing. A  half-caste  clerk  was  ruling  forms  in  a  Pay  Ofhce. 
He  said  to  me,  "Do  you  know  what  would  happen  if  I 
added  or  took  away  one  single  line  on  this  sheet?"  Then, 
with  the  air  of  a  conspirator,  "It  would  disorganize  the 
whole  of  the  Treasury  payments  throughout  the  whole 
of  the  Presidency  Circle!     Think  of  that!" 

If  men  had  not  this  delusion  as  to  the  ultra-importance 
of  their  own  particular  employments,  I  suppose  that  they 
would  sit  down  and  kill  themselves.  But  their  weakness 
is  wearisome,  particularly  when  the  listener  knows  that 
he  himself  commits  exactly  the  same  sin. 

Even  the  Secretariat  believes  that  it  does  good  when 

14 


210  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

it  asks  an  over-driven  Executive  Officer  to  take  a  census 
of  wheat-weevils  through  a  district  of  five  thousand 
square  miles. 

There  was  a  man  once  in  the  Foreign  Office — a  man 
who  had  grown  middle-aged  in  the  Department,  and  was 
commonly  said,  by  irreverent  juniors,  to  be  able  to  re- 
peat Aitchison's  Treaties  and  Sunnuds  backwards  in  his 
sleep.  What  he  did  with  this  stored  knowledge  only  the 
Secretary  knew;  and  he,  naturally,  would  not  publish  the 
news  abroad.  This  man's  name  was  Wressley,  and  it 
was  the  Shibboleth,  in  those  days,  to  say — "Wressley 
knows  more  about  the  Central  Indian  States  than  any 
living  man."  If  you  did  not  say  this,  you  were  consid- 
ered one  of  mean  understanding. 

Nowadays,  the  man  who  says  that  he  knows  the  ravel 
of  the  inter-tribal  complications  across  the  Border  is  of 
more  use;  but,  in  Wressley's  time,  much  attention  was 
paid  to  the  Central  Indian  States.  They  were  called 
"foci"  and  "factors,"  and  all  manner  of  imposing  names. 

And  here  the  curse  of  Anglo-Indian  life  fell  heavily. 
When  Wressley  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  spoke  about  such- 
and-such  a  succession  to  such-and-such  a  throne,  the  For- 
eign Office  were  silent,  and  Heads  of  Departments  re- 
peated the  last  two  or  three  words  of  Wressley's  sen- 
tences, and  tacked  "yes,  yes,"  on  to  them,  and  knew  that 
they  were  assisting  the  Empire  to  grapple  with  serious 
political  contingencies.  In  most  big  undertakings,  one 
or  two  men  do  the  work  while  the  rest  sit  near  and  talk 
till  the  ripe  decorations  begin  to  fall. 

Wressley  was  the  working  member  of  the  Foreign  Of- 
fice firm,  and,  to  keep  him  up  to  his  duties  when  he 
showed  signs  of  flagging,  he  was  made  much  of  by  his 
sui>eriors  and  told  what  a  fine  fellow  he  was.     He  did 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  211 

not  require  coaxing,  because  he  was  of  tough  build,  but 
what  he  received  confirmed  him  in  the  belief  that  there 
was  no  one  quite  so  absolutely  and  imperatively  neces- 
sary to  the  stability  of  India  as  Wressley  of  the  Foreign 
Office.  There  might  be  other  good  men,  but  the  known, 
honored  and  trusted  man  among  men  was  Wressley  of  the 
Foreign  Office.  We  had  a  Viceroy  in  those  days  who  knew 
exactly  when  to  "gentle"  a  fractious  big  man,  and  to 
hearten-up  a  collar-galled  little  one,  and  so  keep  all  his 
team  level.  He  conveyed  to  Wressley  the  impression 
which  I  have  just  set  down;  and  even  tough  men  are 
apt  to  be  disorganized  by  a  Viceroy's  praise.  There  was 
a  case  once but  that  is  another  story. 

All  India  knew  Wressley's  name  and  office — it  was  in 
Thacker  and  Spink's  Directory — but  who  he  was  per- 
sonally, or  what  he  did,  or  what  his  special  merits  were, 
not  fifty  men  knew  or  cared.  His  work  filled  all  his  time, 
and  he  found  no  leisure  to  cultivate  acquaintances  be- 
yond those  of  dead  Rajput  chiefs  with  Ahir  blots  in  their 
scutcheons.  Wressley  would  have  made  a  very  good 
Clerk  in  the  Herald's  College  had  he  not  been  a  Bengal 
Civilian. 

Upon  a  day,  between  office  and  office,  great  trouble 
came  to  Wressley — overwhelmed  him,  knocked  him 
down,  and  left  him  gasping  as  though  he  had  been  a  little 
schoolboy.  Without  reason,  against  prudence,  and  at  a 
moment's  notice,  he  fell  in  love  with  a  frivolous,  golden- 
haired  girl  who  used  to  tear  about  Simla  Mall  on  a  high, 
rough  waler,  with  a  blue  velvet  jockey-cap  crammed  over 
her  eyes.  Her  name  was  Venner — Tillie  Venner — and 
she  was  delightful.  She  took  Wressley's  heart  at  a  hand- 
gallop,  and  Wressley  found  that  it  was  not  good  for  man 


212  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

to  live  alone;  even  with  half  the  Foreign  Office  Records 
in  his  presses. 

Then  Simla  laughed,  for  Wressley  in  love  was  slightly 
ridiculous.  He  did  his  best  to  interest  the  girl  in  him- 
self— that  is  to  say,  his  work — and  she,  after  the  manner 
of  women,  did  her  best  to  appear  interested  in  what,  be- 
hind his  back,  she  called  "Mr.  W'essley's  Wajahs";  for 
she  lisped  very  prettily.  She  did  not  understand  one  lit- 
tle thing  about  them,  but  she  acted  as  if  she  did.  Men 
have  married  on  that  sort  of  error  before  now. 

Providence,  however,  had  care  of  Wressley.  He  was 
immensely  struck  with  Miss  Venner's  intelligence.  He 
would  have  been  more  impressed  had  he  heard  her  pri- 
vate and  confidential  accounts  of  his  calls.  He  held  pe- 
culiar notions  as  to  the  wooing  of  girls.  He  said  that  the 
best  work  of  a  man's  career  should  be  laid  reverently  at 
their  feet.  Ruskin  whites  something  like  this  somewhere, 
I  think;  but  in  ordinary  life  a  few  kisses  are  better  and 
save  time. 

About  a  month  after  he  had  lost  his  heart  to  Miss  Ven- 
ner,  and  had  been  doing  his  work  vilely  in  consequence, 
the  first  idea  of  his  Native  Rule  in  Central  India  struck 
Wressley  and  filled  him  with  joy.  It  was,  as  he  sketched 
it,  a  great  thing — the  work  of  his  life — a  really  compre- 
hensive survey  of  a  most  fascinating  subject — to  be  writ- 
ten with  all  the  special  and  laboriously  acquired  knowl- 
edge of  Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office — a  gift  fit  for  an 
Empress. 

He  told  Miss  Venner  that  he  was  going  to  take  leave, 
and  hoped,  on  his  return,  to  bring  her  a  present  worthy  of 
her  acceptance.  Would  she  wait?  Certainly  she  would. 
Wressley  drew  seventeen  hundred  rupees  a  month.    She 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  213 

would  wait  a  year  for  that.  Her  Mamma  would  help  her 
to  wait. 

So  Wressley  took  one  year's  leave  and  all  the  available 
documents,  about  a  truck-load,  that  he  could  lay  hands 
on,  and  went  down  to  Central  India  with  his  notion  hot 
in  his  head.  He  began  his  book  in  the  land  he  was  writ- 
ing of.  Too  much  official  correspondence  had  made  him 
a  frigid  workman,  and  he  must  have  guessed  that  he 
needed  the  white  light  of  local  color  on  his  palette.  This 
is  a  dangerous  paint  for  amateurs  to  play  with. 

Heavens,  how  that  man  worked!  He  caught  his  Ra- 
jahs, analyzed  his  Rajahs,  and  traced  them  up  into  the 
mists  of  Time  and  beyond,  with  their  queens  and  their 
concubines.  He  dated  and  cross-dated,  pedigreed  and 
triple-pedigreed,  compared,  noted,  connoted,  wove, 
strung,  sorted,  selected,  inferred,  calendared  and  counter- 
calendared  for  ten  hours  a  day.  And,  because  this  sud- 
den and  new  light  of  Love  was  upon  him,  he  turned  loose 
those  dry  bones  of  history  and  dirty  records  of  misdeeds 
into  things  to  weep  or  to  laugh  over  as  he  pleased.  His 
heart  and  soul  were  at  the  end  of  his  pen,  and  they  got  into 
the  ink.  He  was  dowered  with  sympathy,  insight,  humor, 
and  style  for  two  hundr'^d  and  thirty  days  and  nights; 
and  his  book  was  a  Book.  He  had  his  vast  special 
knowledge  with  him,  so  to  speak;  but  the  spirit,  the 
woven-in  human  Touch,  the  poetry  and  the  power  of  the 
output,  were  beyond  all  special  knowledge.  But  I  doubt 
whether  he  knew  the  gift  that  was  in  him  then,  and  thus 
he  may  have  lost  some  happiness.  He  was  toiling  for 
Tillie  Venner,  not  for  himself.  Men  often  do  their  best 
work  blind,  for  some  one  else's  sake. 

Also,  though  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story,  in 
India  where  every  one  knows  every  one  else,  you  can 


214  PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS. 

watch  men  being  driven,  by  the  women  who  govern  them, 
out  of  the  rank-and-file  and  sent  to  take  up  points  alone. 
A  good  man,  once  started,  goes  forward;  but  an  average 
man,  so  soon  as  the  woman  loses  interest  in  his  success 
as  a  tribute  to  her  power,  comes  back  to  the  battalion 
and  is  no  more  heard  of. 

Wressley  bore  tihe  first  copy  of  his  book  to  Simla,  and, 
blushing  and  stammering,  presented  it  to  Miss  Venner. 
She  read  a  little  of  it.  I  give  her  review  verbatim' — "Oh 
your  book?  It's  all  about  those  howwid  Wajahs.  I 
didn't  understand  it." 

Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office  was  broken,  smashed, 
— I  am  not  exaggerating — by  this  one  frivolous  little  girl. 
All  that  he  could  say  feebly  was — "But — but  it's  my  mag- 
num opus!  The  work  of  my  life."  Miss  Venner  did  not 
know  what  magnum  opus  meant;  but  she  knew  that  Cap- 
tain Kerrington  had  won  three  races  at  the  last  Gymk- 
hana. Wressley  did  not  press  her  to  wait  for  him  any 
longer.     He  had  sense  enough  for  that. 

Then  came  the  reaction  after  the  year's  strain,  and 
Wressley  went  back  to  the  Foreign  Office  and  his  "Wa- 
jahs," a  compiling,  gazetteering,  report-writing  hack,  who 
would  have  been  dear  at  three  hundred  rupees  a  month. 
He  abided  by  Miss  Venner's  review.  Which  proves  that 
the  inspiration  in  the  book  was  purely  temporary  and  un- 
connected with  himself.  Nevertheless,  he  had  no  right  to 
sink,  in  a  hill-tarn,  five  packing  cases,  brought  up  at  enor- 
mous expense  from  Bombay,  of  the  best  book  of  Indian 
history  ever  written. 

When  he  sold  ofif  before  retiring,  some  years  later,  I 
was  turning  over  his  shelves,  and  came  across  the  only 
existing  copy  of  Native  Rule  in  Central  India — the  copy 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  21 5 

that  Miss  Venner  could  not  understand.  I  read  it,  sitting 
on  his  mule-trunks,  as  long  as  the  light  lasted,  and  of- 
fered him  his  own  price  for  it.  He  looked  over  my  shoul- 
der for  a  few  pages  and  said  to  himself  drearily — 

"Now,  how  in  the  world  did  I  come  to  write  such 
damned  good  stuff  as  that?" 

Then  to  me — 

"Take  it  and  keep  it.  Write  one  of  your  penny-farthing 
yarns  about  its  birth.  Perhaps — perhaps — the  whole 
business  may  have  been  ordained  to  that  end." 

Which,  knowing  what  Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office 
was  once,  struck  me  as  about  the  bitterest  thing  that  I 
had  ever  heard  a  man  say  of  his  own  work. 


2l6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


BY  WORD  OF  MOUTH. 

Not  though  you  die  to-night,  O  Sweet,  and  wail, 

A  specter  at  my  door. 
Shall  mortal  Fear  make  Love  immortal  fail — 

I  shall  but  love  you  more. 
Who,  from  Death's  house  returning,  give  me  still 
One  moment's  comfort  in  my  matchless  ill. 

— Shadow.  Houses. 

This  tale  may  be  explained  by  those  who  know  how 
souls  are  made,  and  where  the  bounds  of  the  Possible  are 
put  down.  I  have  lived  long  enough  in  this  India  to 
know  that  it  is  best  to  know  nothing,  and  can  only  write 
the  story  as  it  happened. 

Dumoise  was  our  Civil  Surgeon  at  Meridki,  and  we 
called  him  "Dormouse,"  because  he  was  a  round  little, 
sleepy  little  man.  He  was  a  good  Doctor  and  never 
quarrelled  with  any  one,  not  even  with  our  Deputy  Com- 
missioner who  had  the  manners  of  a  bargee  and  the  tact 
of  a  horse.  He  married  a  girl  as  round  and  as  sleepy- 
looking  as  himself.  She  was  a  Miss  Hillardyce,  daugh- 
ter of  "Squash"  Hillardyce  of  the  Berars,  who  married  his 
Chief's  daughter  by  mistake.     But  that  is  another  story. 

A  honeymoon  in  India  is  seldom  more  than  a  week 
long;  but  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  a  couple  from  ex- 
tending it  over  two  or  three  years.  India  is  a  delightful 
country  for  married  folk  who  are  wrapped  up  in  one 
another.  They  can  live  absolutely  alone  and  without 
interruption — ^just  as  the  Dormice  did.  Those  two  little 
people  retired  from  the  world  after  their  marriage,  and 
were  very  happy.    They  were  forced,  of  course,  to  give 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  217 

occasional  dinners,  but  they  made  no  friends  thereby, 
and  the  Station  went  its  own  way  and  forgot  them;  only 
saying,  occasionally,  that  Dormouse  was  the  best  of  good 
fellows,  though  dull.  A  Civil  Surgeon  who  never  quar- 
rels is  a  rarity,  appreciated  as  such. 

Few  people  can  afford  to  play  Robinson  Crusoe  any- 
where— least  of  all  in  India,  where  we  are  few  in  the  land 
and  very  much  dependent  on  each  other's  kind  offices. 
Dumoise  was  wrong  in  shutting  himself  from  the  world 
for  a  year,  and  he  discovered  his  mistake  when  an  epi- 
demic of  typhoid  broke  out  in  the  Station  in  the  heart  of 
the  cold  weather,  and  his  wife  went  down.  He  was  a  shy 
little  man,  and  five  days  were  wasted  before  he  realized 
that  Mrs.  Dumoise  was  burning  with  something  worse 
than  simple  fever,  and  three  days  more  passed  before  he 
ventured  to  call  on  Mrs.  Shute,  the  Engineer's  wife,  and 
timidly  speak  about  his  trouble.  Nearly  every  household 
in  India  knows  that  Doctors  are  very  helpless  in  typhoid. 
The  battle  must  be  fought  out  between  Death  and  the 
Nurses  minute  by  minute  and  degree  by  degree.  Mrs. 
Shute  almost  boxed  Dumoise's  ears  for  what  she  called 
his  "criminal  delay,"  and  went  off  at  once  to  look  after 
the  poor  girl.  We  had  seven  cases  of  typhoid  in  the  Sta- 
tion that  winter  and,  as  the  average  of  death  is  about  one 
in  every  five  cases,  we  felt  certain  that  we  should  have  to 
lose  somebody.  But  all  did  their  best.  The  women  sat 
up  nursing  the  women,  and  the  men  turned  to  and  tended 
the  bachelors  who  were  down,  and  we  wrestled  with  those 
typhoid  cases  for  fifty-six  days,  and  brought  them  through 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  in  triumph.  But,  just  when  we 
thought  all  was  over,  and  were  going  to  give  a  dance  to 
celebrate  the  victory,  little  Mrs.  Dumoise  got  a  relapse 
and  died  in  a  week  and  the  Station  went  to  the  funeral. 


2t8  plain  tales  from  the  hills. 

Dumoise  broke  down  utterly  at  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
and  had  to  be  taken  away. 

After  the  death,  Dumoise  crept  into  his  own  house 
and  refused  to  be  comforted.  He  did  his  duties  perfectly, 
but  we  all  felt  that  he  should  go  on  leave,  and  the  other 
men  of  his  own  Service  told  him  so.  Dumoise  was  very 
thankful  for  the  suggestion — he  was  thankful  for  anything 
in  those  days — and  went  to  Chini  on  a  walking-tour. 
Chini  is  some  twenty  marches  from  Simla,  in  the  heart  of 
the  Hills,  and  the  scenery  is  good  if  you  are  in  trouble. 
You  pass  through  big,  still  deodar-forests,  and  under  big, 
still  cliffs,  and  over  big,  still  grass-downs  swelling  like  a 
woman's  breasts ;  and  the  wind  across  the  grass,  and  the 
rain  among  the  deodars  says — "Hush — hush — hush."  So 
little  Dumoise  was  packed  of?  to  Chini,  to  wear  down  his 
grief  with  a  full-plate  camera  and  a  rifle.  He  took  also  a 
useless  bearer,  because  the  man  had  been  his  wife's  favor- 
ite servant.  He  was  idle  and  a  thief,  but  Dumoise  trusted 
everything  to  him. 

On  his  way  back  from  Chini,  Dumoise  turned  aside 
to  Bagi,  through  the  Forest  Reserve  which  is  on  the  spur 
of  Mount  Huttoo.  Some  men  who  have  traveled  more 
than  a  little  say  that  the  march  from  Kotegarh  to  Bagi  is 
one  of  the  finest  in  creation.  It  runs  through  dark  wet 
forest,  and  ends  suddenly  in  bleak,  nipped  hillside  and 
black  rocks.  Bagi  dak-bungalow  is  open  to  all  the  winds 
and  is  bitterly  cold.  Few  people  go  to  Bagi.  Perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  why  Dumoise  went  there.  He  halted 
at  seven  in  the  evening,  and  his  bearer  went  down  the 
hillside  to  the  village  to  engage  coolies  for  the  next  day's 
march.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  night-winds  were  begin- 
ning to  croon  among  the  rocks.  Dumoise  leaned  on  the 
railing  of  the  verandah,  waiting  for  his  bearer  to  return. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  219 

The  man  came  back  almost  immediately  after  he  had  dis- 
appeared, and  at  such  a  rate  that  Dumoise  fancied  he  must 
have  crossed  a  bear.  He  was  running  as  hard  as  he  could 
up  the  face  of  the  hill. 

But  there  was  no  bear  to  account  for  his  terror.  He 
raced  to  the  verandah  and  fell  down,  the  blood  spurting 
from  his  nose  and  his  face  iron-gray.  Then  he  gurgled — 
"I  have  seen  the  Memsahib!  I  have  seen  the  Mem- 
sahib!" 

"Where?"  said  Dumoise. 

"Down  there,  walking  on  the  road  to  the  village.  She 
was  in  a  blue  dress,  and  she  lifted  the  veil  of  her  bonnet 
and  said — 'Ram  Dass,  give  my  salaams  to  the  Sahib,  and 
tell  him  that  I  shall  meet  him  next  month  at  Nuddea.' 
Then  I  ran  away,  because  I  was  afraid." 

What  Dumoise  said  or  did  I  do  not  know.  Ram  Dass 
declares  that  he  said  nothing,  but  walked  up  and  down 
the  verandah  all  the  cold  night,  waiting  for  the  Memsahib 
to  come  up  the  hill  and  stretching  out  his  arms  into  the 
dark  like  a  madman.  But  no  Memsahib  came,  and,  next 
day,  he  went  on  to  Simla  cross-questioning  the  bearer 
every  hour. 

Ram  Dass 'could  only  say  that  he  had  met  Mrs.  Du- 
moise and  that  she  had  lifted  up  her  veil  and  given  him 
the  message  which  he  had  faithfully  repeated  to  Du- 
moise. To  this  statement  Ram  Dass  adhered.  He  did 
not  know  where  Nuddea  was,  had  no  friends  at  Nuddea, 
and  would  most  certainly  never  go  to  Nuddea;  even 
though  his  pay  were  doubled. 

Nuddea  is  in  Bengal  and  has  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  a  Doctor  serving  in  the  Punjab.  It  must  be  more 
than  twelve  hundred  miles  south  of  Meridki. 

Dumoise  went  through  Simla  without  halting,  and  re- 


220  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

turned  to  Meridki,  there  to  take  over  charge  from  the 
man  who  had  been  officiating  for  him  during  his  tour. 
There  were  some  Dispensary  accounts  to  be  explained, 
and  some  recent  orders  of  the  Surgeon-General  to  be 
noted,  and,  altogether,  the  taking-over  was  a  full  day's 
work.  In  the  evening,  Dumoise  told  his  locum  tenens, 
who  was  an  old  friend  of  his  bachelor  days,  what  had 
happened  at  Bagi ;  and  the  man  said  that  Ram  Dass  miglit 
as  well  have  chosen  Tuticorin  while  he  was  about  it. 

At  that  moment,  a  telegraph-peon  came  in  with  a  tele- 
gram from  Simla,  ordering  Dumoise  not  to  take  over 
charge  at  Meridki,  but  to  go  at  once  to  Nuddea  on  spe- 
cial duty.  There  was  a  nasty  outbreak  of  cholera  at  Nud- 
dea, and  the  Bengal  Government,  being  short-handed,  as 
usual,  had  borrowed  a  Surgeon  from  the  Punjab. 

Dumoise  threw  the  telegram  across  the  table  and  said 
—"Well?" 

The  other  Doctor  said  nothing.  It  was  all  that  he 
could  say. 

Then  he  remembered  that  Dumoise  had  passed  through 
Simla  on  his  way  from  Bagi;  and  thus  might,  possibly, 
have  heard  first  news  of  the  impending  transfer. 

He  tried  to  put  the  question,  and  the  implied  suspicion 
into  words,  but  Dumoise  stopped  him  with — "If  I  had 
desired  that,  I  should  never  have  come  back  from  Chini. 
I  was  shooting  there.  I  wish  to  live,  for  I  have  things  to 
do  .  .  .  but  I  shall  not  be  sorry." 

The  other  man  bowed  his  head,  and  helped,  in  the  twi- 
light, to  pack  up  Dumoise's  just  opened  trunks.  Ram 
Dass  entered  with  the  lamps. 

"Where  is  the  Sahib  going?"  he  asked. 

"To  Nuddea,"  said  Dumoise  softly. 

Ram   Dass  clawed  Dumoise's  knees  and  boots  and 


PLAIN  TALES   FROM   THE   HILLS.  221 

begged  him  not  to  go.  Ram  Dass  wept  and  howled  till 
he  was  turned  out  of  the  room.  Then  he  wrapped  up  all 
his  belongings  and  came  back  to  ask  for  a  character.  He 
was  not  going  to  Nuddea  to  see  his  Sahib  die  and,  per- 
haps, to  die  himself. 

So  Dumoise  gave  the  man  his  wages  and  went  down 
to  Nuddea  alone;  the  other  Doctor  bidding  him  good- 
bye as  one  under  sentence  of  death. 

Eleven  days  later  he  had  joined  his  Memsahib;  and 
the  Bengal  Government  had  to  borrow  a  fresh  Doctor 
to  cope  with  that  epidemic  at  Nuddea.  The  first  importa- 
tion lay  dead  in  Chooadanga  Dak-Bungalow. 


2i22  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCK 

By  the  hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat  up-tossed 
From  the  Cliff  where  She  lay  in  the  Sun, 

Fell  the  Stone 
To  the  Tarn  where  the  daylight  is  lost; 
So  She  fell  from  the  Ifght  of  the  Sun, 

And  alone. 

Now  the  fall  was  ordained  from  the  first, 
With  the  Goat  and  the  Cliff  and  -the  Tarn, 

But  the  Stone 
Knows  only  Her  life  is  accursed, 

And  alone. 

Oh,  Thou  who  hast  builded  the  world! 
Oh,  Thou  who  hast  lighted  the  Sun! 
Oh,  Thou  who  hast  darkened  the  Tarn! 

Judge  Thou 
The  sin  of  the  Stone  that  was  hurled 
By  the  Goat  from  the  light  of  the  Sun, 
As  she  sinks  in  the  depths  of  the  Tarn, 

Even  now — even  now — even  now! 
— From  the  Unpublished  Papers  of  Mcintosh  Jellaludin. 

"Say  is  it  dawn,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  Bower, 
Thou  whom  I  long  for,  who  longest  for  me? 
Oh,  be  it  night— be  it " 

Here  he  fell  over  a  little  camel-colt  that  was  sleeping 
in  the  Serai  where  the  horse-traders  and  the  best  of  the 
blackguards  from  Central  Asia  live;  and,  because  he  was 
very  drunk  indeed  and  the  night  was  dark,  he  could  not 
rise  again  till  I  helped  him.  That  was  the  beginning  of 
my  acquaintance   with   Mcintosh   Jellaludin.    When   a 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  223 

loafer,  and  drunk,  sings  "The  Song  of  the  Bower,"  he 
must  be  worth  cultivating.  He  got  off  the  camel's  back 
and  said,  rather  thickly,  "I — I — I'm  a  bit  screwed,  but  a 
dip  in  Loggerhead  will  put  me  right  again;  and,  I  say, 
have  you  spoken  to  Symonds  about  the  mare's  knees?" 

Now  Loggerhead  was  six  thousand  weary  miles  away 
from  us,  close  to  Mesopotamia,  where  you  mustn't  fish  and 
poaching  is  impossible,  and  Charley  Symonds'  stable  a 
half  mile  farther  across  the  paddocks.  It  was  strange  to 
hear  all  the  old  names,  on  a  May  night,  among  the  horses 
and  camels  of  the  Sultan  Caravanserai.  Then  the  man 
seemed  to  remember  himself  and  sober  down  at  the  same 
time.  We  leaned  against  the  camel  and  pointed  to  a  cor- 
ner of  the  Serai  where  a  lamp  was  burning. 

"I  live  there,"  said  he,  "and  I  should  be  extremely 
obliged  if  you  would  be  good  enough  to  help  my  muti- 
nous feet  thither;  for  I  am  more  than  usually  drunk — 
most — most  phenomenally  tight.  But  not  in  respect  to 
my  head.  'My  brain  cries  out  against' — how  does  it  go? 
But  my  head  rides  on  the — rolls  on  the  dunghill  I  should 
have  said,  and  controls  the  qualm." 

I  helped  him  through  the  gangs  of  tethered  horses  and 
he  collapsed  on  the  edge  of  the  verandah  in  front  of  the 
line  of  native  quarters. 

"Thanks — a  thousand  thanks !  O  Moon  and  little,  little 
Stars!  To  think  that  a  man  should  so  shamelessly  .  .  . 
Infamous  liquor  too.  Ovid  in  exile  drank  no  worse. 
Better.  It  was  frozen.  Alas!  I  had  no  ice.  Good-night. 
I  would  introduce  you  to  my  wife  were  I  sober — or  she 
civilized." 

A  native  woman  came  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  room, 
and  began  calling  the  man  names ;  so  I  went  away.  He 
was  the  most  interesting  loafer  that  I  had  had  the  pleasure 


224  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

of  knowing  for  a  long  time;  and  later  on,  he  became  a 
friend  of  m.ine.  He  was  a  tall,  well-built,  fair  man,  fear- 
fully shaken  with  drink,  and  he  looked  nearer  fifty  than 
the  thirty-five  which,  he  said,  was  his  real  age  When  a 
m.an  begins  to  sink  in  India,  and  is  not  sent  Home  by  his 
friends  as  soon  as  may  be,  he  falls  very  low  from  a  re- 
spectable point  of  view.  By  the  time  that  he  changes  his 
creed,  as  did  Mcintosh,  he  is  past  redemption. 

In  most  big  cities,  natives  will  tell  you  of  two  or  three 
Sahibs,  generally  low-caste,  who  have  turned  Hindu  or 
Mussulman,  and  who  live  more  or  less  as  such.  But  it 
is  not  often  you  can  get  to  know  them.  As  Mcintosh 
himself  used  to  say,  "If  I  change  my  religion  for  my  stom- 
ach's sake,  I  do  not  seek  to  become  a  martyr  to  mission- 
aries, nor  am  I  anxious  for  notoriety." 

At  the  outset  of  acquaintance  Mcintosh  warned  me. 
"Remember  this.  I  am  not  an  object  for  charity,  I  require 
neither  your  money,  your  food,  nor  your  cast-off  raiment. 
I  am  that  rare  animal,  a  self-supporting  drunkard.  If  you 
choose,  I  will  smoke  with  you,  for  the  tobacco  of  the 
bazars  does  not,  I  admit,  suit  my  palate;  and  I  will  borrow 
any  books  which  you  may  not  specially  value.  It  is  more 
than  likely  that  I  shall  sell  them  for  bottles  of  excessively 
filthy  country-liquors.  In  return  you  shall  share  such 
hospitality  as  my  house  affords.  Here  is  a  charpoy  on 
which  tM^o  can  sit,  and  it  is  possible  that  there  may,  from 
time  to  time,  be  food  in  that  platter.  Drink,  unfortunate- 
ly, you  will  find  on  the  premises  at  any  hour;  and  thus  I 
make  you  welcome  to  all  my  poor  establishment." 

I  was  admitted  to  the  Mcintosh  household — I  and  my 
good  tobacco.  But  nothing  else.  Unluckily,  one  can- 
not visit  a  loafer  in  the  Serai  by  day.  Friends  buy- 
ing horses  would  not  understand  it.     Consequently,  I 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS,  225 

was  obliged  to  see  Mcintosh  after  dark.  He  laughed  at 
this,  and  said  simply,  "You  are  perfectly  right.  When  I 
enjoyed  a  position  in  society,  rather  higher  than  yours, 
I  should  have  done  exactly  the  same  thing.  Good 
Heavens!  I  was  once — he  spoke  as  though  he  had  fallen 
from  the  Command  of  a  Regiment — "an  Oxford  Man!" 
This  accounted  for  the  reference  to  Charley  Symonds' 
stable. 

"You,"  said  Alclntosh  slowly,  "have  not  had  that  ad- 
vantage; but,  to  outward  appearance,  you  do  not  seem 
possessed  of  a  craving  for  strong  drinks.  On  the  whole, 
I  fancy  that  you  are  the  luckier  of  the  two.  Yet  I  am  not 
certain.  You  are — forgive  me  saying  so  even  while  I  am 
smoking  your  excellent  tobacco — painfully  ignorant  of 
many  things." 

We  were  sitting  together  on  the  edge  of  his  bedstead, 
for  he  owned  no  chairs,  watching  the  horses  being  wat- 
ered for  the  night,  while  the  native  woman  was  preparing 
dinner.  I  did  not  like  being  patronized  by  a  loafer,  but  I 
was  his  guest  for  the  time  being,  though  he  owned  only 
one  very  torn  alpaca-coat  and  a  pair  of  trousers  made  out 
of  gunny-bags.  He  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
went  on  judicially,  "All  things  considered,  I  doubt 
whether  you  are  the  luckier.  I  do  not  refer  to  your  ex- 
tremely limited  classical  attainments,  or  your  excruciat- 
ing quantities,  but  to  your  gross  ignorance  of  matters 
more  immediately  under  your  notice.  That,  for  instance," 
he  pointed  to  a  woman  cleaning  a  samovar  near  the  well 
in  the  center  of  the  Serai.  She  was  flicking  the  water  out 
of  the  spout  in  regular  cadenced  jerks. 

"There  are  ways  and  ways  of  cleaning  samovars.  If 
you  knew  why  she  was  doing  her  work  in  that  particular 

15 


226  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

fashion,  you  would  know  what  the  Spanish  Monk  meant 
when  he  said — 

I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 
Drinking  watered  orange-pulp — 

In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate, 
While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp — 

and  many  other  things  which  are  now  hidden  from  your 
eyes.  However,  Mrs.  Mcintosh  has  prepared  dinner. 
Let  us  come  and  eat  after  the  fashion  of  the  people  of 
the  country — of  whom,  by  the  way,  you  know  nothing." 

The  native  woman  dipped  her  hand  in  the  dish  with 
us.  This  was  wrong.  The  wife  should  always  wait  until 
the  husband  has  eaten.  Mcintosh  Jellaludin  apologized, 
saying — 

"It  is  an  English  prejudice  which  I  have  not  been  able 
to  overcome ;  and  she  loves  me.  Why,  I  have  never  been 
able  to  understand.  I  foregathered  with  her  at  Jullundur, 
three  years  ago,  and  she  has  remained  with  me  ever  since. 
I  believe  her  to  be  moral,  and  know  her  to  be  skilled  in 
cookery." 

He  patted  the  woman's  head  as  he  spoke,  and  she  cooed 
softly.     She  was  not  pretty  to  look  at. 

Mcintosh  never  told  me  what  position  he  had  held  be- 
fore his  fall.  He  was.  when  sober,  a  scholar  and  a  gen- 
tleman. When  drunk,  he  was  rather  more  of  the  first 
than  the  second.  He  used  to  get  drunk  about  once  a 
week  for  two  days.  On  those  occasions  the  native  woman 
tended  him  while  'he  raved  in  all  tongues  except  his  own. 
One  day,  indeed,  he  began  reciting  "Atalanta  in  Caly- 
don,"  and  went  through  it  to  the  end,  beating  time  to  the 
swing  of  the  verse  with  a  bedstead-leg.  But  he  did  most 
of  his  ravings  in  Greek  or  German.  The  man's  mind 
was  a  perfect  rag-bag  of  useless  things.     Once,  when  he 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  227 

was  beginning  to  get  sober,  he  told  me  that  I  was  the 
only  rational  being  in  the  Inferno  into  which  he  had  de- 
scended— a  Virgil  in  the  Shades,  he  said — and  that,  in  re- 
turn for  my  tobacco,  he  would,  before  he  died,  give  me 
the  materials  of  a  new  Inferno  that  should  make  me 
greater  than  Dante.  Then  he  fell  asleep  on  a  horse- 
blanket  and  woke  up  quite  calm. 

"Man,"  said  he,  "when  you  have  reached  the  uttermost 
depths  of  degradation,  little  incidents  which  would  vex  a 
higher  life,  are  to  you  of  no  consequence.  Last  night, 
my  soul  was  among  the  Gods ;  but  I  make  no  doubt  that 
my  bestial  body  was  writhing  down  here  in  the  garbage." 

"You  were  abominably  drunk  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
I  said. 

"I  was  drunk — filthily  drunk.  I  who  am  the  son  of  a 
man  with  whom  you  have  no  concern — I  who  was  once 
Fellow  of  a  College  whose  buttery-hatch  you  have  not 
seen.  I  was  loathsomely  drunk.  But  consider  how 
lightly  I  am  touched.  It  is  nothing  to  me.  Less  than 
nothing;  for  I  do  not  even  feel  the  headache  which  should 
be  my  portion.  Now,  in  a  higher  life,  how  ghastly  would 
have  been  my  punishment,  how  bitter  my  repentance! 
Believe  me  my  friend  with  the  neglected  education,  the 
highest  is  as  the  lowest — always  supposing  each  degree 
extreme." 

He  turned  round  on  the  blanket,  put  his  head  between 
his  fists  and  continued — 

"On  the  Soul  which  I  have  lost  and  on  the  Conscience 
which  I  have  killed,  I  tell  you  that  I  cannot  feel!  I  am 
as  the  Gods,  knowing  good  and  evil,  but  untouched  by 
either.     Is  this  enviable  or  is  it  not?" 

When  a  man  has  lost  the  warning  of  "next  morning's 
head"  he  must  be  in  a  bad  state.     I  answered,  looking  at 


228  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

]\IcIntosh  on  the  blanket,  with  his  hair  over  his  eyes  and 
his  Hps  blue-white,  that  I  did  not  think  the  insensibiHty 
good  enough. 

"For  pity's  sake,  don't  say  that!  I  tell  you,  it  is  good 
and  most  enviable.     Think  of  my  consolations!" 

"Have  you  so  many,  then,  Mcintosh?" 

"Certainly;  your  attempts  at  sarcasm  which  is  essen- 
tially the  weapon  of  a  cultured  man,  are  crude.  First, 
my  attainments,  my  classical  and  literary  knowledge, 
blurred,  perhaps,  by  immoderate  drinking — which  re- 
minds me  that  before  my  soul  went  to  the  Gods  last  night, 
I  sold  the  Pickering  Horace  you  so  kindly  lent  me.  Ditta 
Mull  the  clothesman  has  it.  It  fetched  ten  annas,  and 
may  be  redeemed  for  a  rupee — but  still  infinitely  superior 
to  yours.  Secondly,  the  abiding  affection  of  Mrs.  Mcin- 
tosh, best  of  wives.  Thirdly,  a  monument,  more  enduring 
than  brass,  which  I  have  built  up  in  the  seven  years  of  my 
degradation." 

He  stopped  here,  and  crawled  across  the  room  for  a 
drink  of  water.     He  was  very  shaky  and  sick. 

He  referred  several  times  to  his  "treasure" — some  great 
possession  that  he  owned — but  I  held  this  to  be  the  raving 
of  drink.  He  was  as  poor  and  as  proud  as  he  could  be. 
His  manner  was  not  pleasant,  but  he  knew  enough  about 
the  natives,  among  whom  seven  years  of  his  life  had  been 
spent,  to  make  his  acquaintance  worth  having.  He  used 
actually  to  laugh  at  Strickland  as  an  ignorant  man — 
"ignorant  West  and  East" — he  said.  His  boast  was,  first, 
that  he  was  an  Oxford  man  of  rare  and  shining  parts, 
which  may  or  may  not  have  been  true — I  did  not  know 
enough  to  check  his  statements — and,  secondly,  that  he 
"had  his  hand  on  the  pulse  of  native  life" — which  was  a 
fact.     As  an  Oxford  man,  he  struck  me  as  a  prig;  he  was 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  220 

always  throwing  his  education  about.  As  a  i^Iohamme- 
dan  faquir — as  Mcintosh  Jellaludin — he  was  all  that  I 
wanted  for  my  own  ends.  He  smoked  several  pounds  of 
my  tobacco,  and  taught  me  several  ounces  of  things  worth 
knowing;  but  he  would  never  accept  any  gifts,  not  even 
when  the  cold  weather  came,  and  gripped  the  poor  thin 
chest  under  the  poor  thin  alpaca-coat.  He  grew  very 
angry,  and  said  that  I  had  insulted  him,  and  that  he  was 
not  going  into  hospital.  He  had  lived  like  a  beast  and  he 
would  die  rationally,  like  a  man. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  lie  died  of  pneumonia ;  and  on  the 
night  of  his  death  sent  over  a  grubby  note  asking  me  to 
come  and  help  him  to  die. 

The  native  woman  was  weeping  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 
Mcintosh,  wrapped  in  a  cotton  cloth,  was  too  weak  to 
resent  a  fur  coat  being  thrown  over  him.  He  was  very 
active  as  far  as  his  mind  was  concerned,  and  his  eyes  were 
blazing.  When  he  had  abused  the  Doctor  who  came  with 
me,  so  foully  that  the  indignant  old  fellow  left,  he  cursed 
me  for  a  few  minutes  and  calmed  down. 

Then  he  told  his  wife  to  fetch  out  "The  Book"  from  a 
hole  in  the  wall.  She  brought  out  a  big  bundle,  wrapped 
in  the  tail  of  a  petticoat,  of  old  sheets  of  miscellaneous 
notepaper,  all  numbered,  and  covered  with  fine  cramped 
writing.  Mcintosh  ploughed  his  hand  through  the  rub- 
bish and  stirred  it  up  lovingly. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  my  work — the  Book  of  Mcintosh 
Jellaludin,  showing  what  he  saw  and  how  he  lived,  and 
what  befell  him  and  others;  being  also  an  account  of  the 
life  and  sins  and  death  of  Mother  Maturin.  What  Mirza 
Murad  Ali  Beg's  Book  is  to  all  other  books  on  native  life, 
will  my  work  be  to  Mirza  Murad  Ali  Beg's!" 

This,  as  will  be  conceded  by  any  one  who  knows  Mirza 


230  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Murad  Ali  Beg's  book,  was  a  sweeping  statement.  The 
papers  did  not  look  specially  valuable;  but  Mcintosh  han- 
dled them  as  if  they  were  currency-notes.  Then  said  he 
slowly — 

"In  despite  the  many  weaknesses  of  your  education, 
you  have  been  good  to  me.  I  will  speak  of  your  to- 
bacco when  I  reach  the  Gods.  I  owe  you  much  thanks 
for  many  kindnesses.  But  I  abominate  indebtedness. 
For  this  reason,  I  bequeath  to  you  now  the  monument 
more  enduring  than  brass — my  one  book — rude  and  im- 
perfect in  parts,  but  oh  hovy  rare  in  others!  I  wonder  if 
you  will  understand  it.  It  is  a  gift  more  honorable  than 
.  .  .  Bah!  where  is  my  brain  rambling  to?  You  will 
mutilate  it  horribly.  You  will  knock  out  the  gems  you 
call  Latin  quotations,  you  Philistine,  and  you  will  butcher 
the  style  to  carve  into  your  own  jerky  jargon;  but  you 
cannot  destroy  the  whole  of  it.  I  bequeath  it  to  you.  Ethel 
.  .  .  My  brain  again!  .  .  .  Mrs.  Mcintosh,  bear  witness 
that  I  give  the  Sahib  all  these  papers.  They  would  be  of 
no  use  to  you.  Heart  of  my  Heart;  and  I  lay  it  upon  you," 
he  turned  to  me  here,  "that  you  do  not  let  my  book  die 
in  its  present  form.  It  is  yours  unconditionally — the 
story  of  Mcintosh  Jellaludin,  which  is  not  the  story  of 
Mcintosh  Jellaludin,  but  of  a  greater  man  than  he,  and  of 
a  far  greater  woman.  Listen  now !  I  am  neither  mad  nor 
drunk !     That  book  will  make  you  famous." 

I  said,  "Thank  you,"  as  the  native  woman  put  the  bun- 
dle into  my  arms. 

"My  only  baby!"  said  Mcintosh,  with  a  smile.  He  was 
sinking  fast,  but  he  continued  to  talk  as  long  as  breath 
remained.  I  waited  for  the  end;  knowing  that,  in  six 
cases  out  of  ten,  a  dying  man  calls  for  his  mother.  He 
turned  on  his  side  and  said — 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  23 1 

"Say  how  it  came  into  your  possession.  No  one  will 
believe  you,  but  my  name,  at  least,  will  live.  You  will 
treat  it  brutally,  I  know  you  will.  Some  of  it  must  go; 
the  public  are  fools  and  prudish  fools.  I  was  their  ser- 
vant once.  But  do  your  mangling  gently — very  gently. 
It  is  a  great  work,  and  I  have  paid  for  it  in  seven  years' 
damnation." 

His  voice  stopped  for  ten  or  twelve  breaths,  and  then 
he  began  mumbling  a  prayer  of  some  kind  in  Greek.  The 
native  woman  cried  very  bitterly.  Lastly,  he  rose  in  bed 
and  said,  as  loudly  as  slowly — "Not  guilty,  my  Lord!" 

Then  he  fell  back,  and  the  stupor  held  him  till  he  died. 
The  native  woman  ran  into  the  Serai  among  the  horses, 
and  screamed  and  beat  her  breasts;  for  she  had  loved 
him. 

Perhaps  his  last  sentence  in  life  told  what  Mcintosh 
had  once  gone  through;  but,  saving  the  big  bundle  of  old 
sheets  in  the  cloth,  there  was  nothing  in  his  room  to  say 
who  or  what  he  had  been. 

The  papers  were  in  a  hopeless  muddle. 

Strickland  helped  me  to  sort  them,  and  he  said  that 
the  writer  was  either  an  extreme  liar  or  a  most  wonderful 
person.  He  thought  the  former.  One  of  these  days,  you 
may  be  able  to  judge  for  yourselves.  The  bundle  needed 
much  expurgation  and  was  full  of  Greek  nonsense,  at 
the  head  of  the  chapters,  which  has  all  been  cut  out. 

If  the  thing  is  ever  published,  some  one  may  perhaps 
remem'bcr  this  story,  now  printed  as  a  safeguard  to  prove 
that  Mcintosh  Jellaludin  and  not  I  myself  wrote  the  Book 
of  Mother  Maturin. 

I  don't  want  the  Giant's  Robe  to  come  true  in  my  case. 


232  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


DRAY  WARA  YOW  DEE. 

For  jealousy  is  the  rage  of  a  man;    therefore  he  will  not 

spare  it  the  day  of  vengeance. 

— Prov.  vii.  34. 

Almonds  and  raisins,  sahib?  Grapes  from  Cabul?  Or 
a  pony  of  the  rarest  if  the  sahib  will  only  come  with  me. 
He  is  thirteen  three,  sahib,  plays  polo,  goes  in  a  cart,  car- 
ries a  lady  and — Holy  Kurshed  and  the  Blessed  Imams,  it 
is  the  sahib  himself!  ^ly  heart  is  made  fat  and  my  eye 
glad.  May  you  never  be  tired!  As  is  cold  water  in  the 
Tirah,  so  is  the  sight  of  a  friend  in  a  far  place.  And  what 
do  you  in  this  accursed  land?  South  of  Delhi,  sahib,  you 
know  the  saying — "Rats  are  the  men  and  trulls  the 
women."  It  was  an  order?  Ahoo!  An  order  is  an  order 
till  one  is  strong  enough  to  disobey.  Oh,  my  brother,  oh, 
my  friend,  we  have  met  in  an  auspicious  hour!  Is  all  well 
in  the  heart  and  the  body  and  the  house?  In  a  lucky  day 
have  we  two  come  together  again. 

I  am  to  go  with  you  ?  Your  favor  is  great.  Will  there 
be  picket-room  in  the  compound?  I  have  three  horses  and 
the  bundles  and  the  horse-boy.  Moreover,  remember  that 
the  police  here  hold  me  a  horse-thief.  What  do  these  Low- 
land bastards  know  of  horse-thieves?  Do  you  remember 
that  time  in  Peshawur  when  Kama!  hammered  on  the 
gates  of  Jumrud — mountebank  that  he  was — and  lifted 
the  colonel's  horses  all  in  one  night?  Kamal  is  dead  now, 
but  his  nephew  has  taken  up  the  matter,  and  there  will 
be  more  horses  a-missing  if  the  Khaiber  Levies  do  not 
look  to  it. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  233 

The  peace  of  God  and  the  favor  of  his  Prophet  be  upon 
this  house  and  all  that  is  in  it!  Shafiz-ullah,  rope  the 
mottled  mare  under  the  tree  and  draw  water.  The  horses 
can  stand  in  the  sun,  but  double  the  felts  over  the  loins. 
Nay,  my  friend,  do  not  trouble  to  look  them  over.  They 
are  to  sell  to  the  officer  fools  who  know  so  many  things  of 
the  horse.  The  mare  is  heavy  in  foal ;  the  gray  is  a  devil 
unlicked;  and  the  dun — but  you  know  the  trick  of  the 
peg.  When  they  are  sold  I  go  back  to  Pubbi,  or,  it  may 
be,  the  Valley  of  Peshawair. 

Oh,  friend  of  my  heart,  it  is  good  to  see  you  again.  I 
have  been  bowing  and  lying  all  day  to  the  officer-sahibs  in 
respect  to  those  horses;  and  my  mouth  is  dry  for  straight 
talk.  Auggrh!  Before  a  meal  tobacco  is  good.  Do  not 
join  me,  for  we  are  not  in  our  own  country.  Sit  in  the 
veranda  and  I  will  spread  my  cloth  here.  But  first  I  will 
drink.  In  the  name  of  God  returning  thanks,  thrice! 
This  is  sweet  water,  indeed — sweet  as  the  water  of  Sheo- 
ran  when  it  comes  from  the  snows. 

They  are  all  well  and  pleased  in  the  North — Khoda 
Baksh  and  the  others.  Yar  Kham  has  come  down  with 
the  horses  from  Kurdistan — six-and-thirty  head  only,  and 
a  full  half  pack-ponies — and  has  said  openly  in  the  Kash- 
mir Serai  that  you  English  should  send  guns  and  blow  the 
Amir  into  hell.  There  are  fifteen  tolls  now  on  the  Kabul 
road;  and  at  Dakka,  when  he  thought  he  was  clear,  Yar 
Khan  was  stripped  of  all  his  Balkh  stallions  by  the  gov- 
ernor! This  is  a  great  injustice,  and  Yar  Khan  is  hot 
with  rage.  And  of  the  others:  Mahbub  Ali  is  still  at 
Pubbi,  writing  God  knows  what.  Tuglup  Khan  is  in  jail 
for  the  business  of  the  Kohat  Police  Post.  Faiz  Beg  came 
down  from  Ismail-ki-Dhera  with  a  Bokhariot  belt  for  thee, 
my  brother,  at  the  closing  of  the  year,  but  none  knew 


234  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

whither  thou  hadst  gone ;  there  was  no  news  left  behind. 
The  cousins  have  taken  a  new  run  near  Pakpattan  to 
breed  mules  for  the  government  carts,  and  there  is  a  story 
in  Bazar  of  a  priest.  Oho!  Such  a  salt  tale!  Lis- 
ten .  .  . 

Sahib,  why  do  you  ask  that?  My  clothes  are  fouled  be- 
cause of  the  dust  on  the  road.  My  eyes  are  sad  because  of 
the  glare  of  the  sun.  My  feet  are  swollen  because  I  have 
washed  them  in  bitter  water,  and  my  cheeks  are  hollow  be- 
cause the  food  here  is  bad.  Fire  burn  your  money!  What 
do  I  want  with  it?  I  am  rich  and  I  thought  you  were  my 
friend;  but  you  are  like  the  others — a  sahib.  Is  a  man 
sad?  Give  him  money,  say  the  sahibs.  Is  he  dishonored? 
Give  him  money,  say  the  sahibs.  Hath  he  a  wrong  upon 
his  head?  Give  him  money,  say  the  sahibs.  Such  are  the 
sahibs,  and  such  art  thou — even  thou. 

Nay,  do  not  look  at  the  feet  of  the  dun.  Pity  it  is  that 
I  ever  taught  you  to  know  the  legs  of  a  horse.  Foot-sore? 
Be  it  so.  What  of  that?  The  roads  are  hard.  And  the 
mare  foot-sore?    She  bears  a  double  burden,  sahib. 

And  now  I  pray  you,  give  me  permission  to  depart. 
Great  favor  and  honor  has  the  sahib  done  me,  and  gra- 
ciously has  'he  shown  his  belief  that  the  horses  are  stolen. 
Will  it  please  him  to  send  me  to  the  Thana?  To  call  a 
sweeper  and  have  me  led  away  by  one  of  these  lizard-men? 
I  am  the  sahib's  friend.  I  have  drunk  water  in  the  shadow 
of  his  house,  and  he  has  blackened  my  face.  Remains 
there  anything  more  to  do?  Will  the  sahib  give  me  eight 
annas  to  make  smooth  the  injury  and — complete  the  in- 
sult? .  .  . 

Forgive  me,  my  brother.  I  knew  not — I  know  not  now 
— what  I  say.  Yes,  I  lied  to  you !  I  will  put  dust  on  my 
head — and  I  am  an  Afridi  I  The  horses  have  been  marched 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  235 

foot-sore  from  the  valley  to  this  place,  and  my  eyes  are 
dim,  my  body  aches  for  the  want  of  sleep,  and  my  heart  is 
dried  up  with  sorrow  and  shame.  But,  as  it  was  my 
shame  so  by  God  the  Dispenser  of  Justice — by  Allah-al- 
Mumit,  it  shall  be  my  own  revenge ! 

We  have  spoken  together  with  naked  hearts  before  this, 
and  our  hands  have  dipped  into  the  same  dish  and  thou 
hast  been  to  me  as  a  brother.  Therefore  I  pay  thee  back 
with  lies  and  ingratitude — as  a  Pathan.  Listen  now! 
When  the  grief  of  the  soul  is  too  heavy  for  endurance  it 
may  be  a  little  eased  by  speech ;  and,  moreover,  the  mind 
of  a  true  man  is  as  a  well,  and  the  pebble  of  confession 
dropped  therein  sinks  and  is  no  more  seen.  From  the  val- 
ley have  I  come  on  foot,  league  by  league  with  a  fire  in 
my  chest  like  the  fire  of  the  Pit.  And  why?  Hast  thou, 
then,  so  quickly  forgotten  our  customs,  among  this  folk 
who  sell  their  wives  and  their  daughters  for  silver?  Come 
back  with  me  to  the  North  and  be  among  men  once  more. 
Come  back,  when  this  matter  is  accomplished  and  I  call 
for  thee!  The  bloom  of  the  peach-orchards  is  upon  all 
the  valley,  and  here  is  only  dust  and  a  great  stink.  There 
is  a  pleasant  wind  among  the  mulberry  trees,  and  the 
streams  are  bright  with  snow-water,  and  the  caravans  go 
up  and  the  caravans  go  down,  and  a  hundred  fires  sparkle 
in  the  gut  of  the  pass,  and  tent-peg  answers  hammer-nose, 
and  pack-horse  squeals  to  pack-horse  across  the  drift 
smoke  of  the  evening.  It  is  good  in  the  North  now. 
Come  back  with  me.  Let  us  return  to  our  own  people! 
Come! 

:J:  *  *  *  *  * 

Whence  is  my  sorrow?  Does  a  man  tear  out  his  heart 
and  make  fritters  thereof  over  a  slow  fire  for  aught  other 
than  a  woman?    Do  not  laugh,  friend  of  mine,  for  your 


236  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

time  will  also  be.  A  woman  of  the  Abazai  was  she,  and  I 
took  her  to  wife  to  stanch  the  feud  between  our  village 
and  the  men  of  Ghor.  I  am  no  longer  young.  The  lime  has 
touched  my  beard.  True.  I  had  no  need  of  the  wedding? 
Nay,  but  I  loved  her.  What  saith  Rahman — "Into  whose 
heart  Love  enters,  there  is  Folly  and  naught  else.  By  a 
glance  of  the  eye  she  hath  blinded  thee;  and  by  the  eyelids 
and  the  fringe  of  the  eyelids  taken  thee  into  the  captivity 
without  ransom,  and  naught  else."  Dost  thou  remember 
that  song  at  the  sheep-roasting  in  the  Pindi  camp  among 
the  Uzbegs  of  the  Amir? 

The  Abazai  are  dogs  and  their  women  the  servants  of 
sin.  There  was  a  lover  of  her  own  people,  but  of  that  her 
father  told  me  naught.  My  friend,  curse  for  me  in  your 
prayers,  as  I  curse  at  each  praying  from  the  Fakr  to  the 
Isha,  the  name  of  Daoud  Shah,  Abazai,  whose  head  is 
still  upon  his  neck,  whose  hands  are  still  upon  his  wrists, 
who  has  done  me  dishonor,  who  has  made  my  name  a 
laughing-stock  among  the  women  of  Little  Malikand. 

I  went  into  Hindoostan  at  the  end  of  two  months — to 
Cherat.  I  was  gone  twelve  days  only;  but  I  had  said  that 
I  would  be  fifteen  days  absent.  This  I  did  to  try  her,  for 
it  is  written:  "Trust  not  the  incapable."  Coming  up  the 
gorge  alone  in  the  falling  of  the  light,  I  heard  the  voice  of 
a  man  singing  at  the  door  of  my  house;  and  it  was  the 
voice  of  Daoud  Shah,  and  the  song  that  he  sung  was 
"Dray  wara  yow  dee" — all  three  are  one.  It  was  as  though 
a  heel-rope  had  been  slipped  round  my  heart  and  all  the 
devils  were  drawing  it  tight  past  endurance.  I  crept 
silently  up  the  liill-road,  but  the  fuse  of  my  match-lock 
Vv'as  wetted  with  the  rain,  and  I  could  not  slay  Daoud 
Shah  from  afar.  Moreover,  it  was  in  my  mind  to  kill  the 
woman  also.  Thus  he  sung,  sitting  outside  my  house,  and, 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  237 

anon,  tht  woman  opened  the  door,  and  I  came  nearer, 
crawling  en  my  belly  among  the  rocks.  I  had  only  my 
knife  to  my  hand.  But  a  stone  slipped  under  my  foot,  and 
the  two  looked  down  the  hill-side,  and  he,  leaving  his 
match-lock,  fled  from  my  anger,  because  he  was  afraid  for 
the  life  that  was  in  him.  But  the  woman  moved  not  till  I 
stood  in  front  of  her,  crying:  "Oh,  woman,  what  is  this 
that  thou  hast  done?"  And  she,  void  of  fear,  though  she 
knew  my  thought,  laughed,  saying:  "It  is  a  little  thing. 
I  loved  him,  and  thou  art  a  dog  and  cattle-thief  coming  by 
night.  Strike !"  And  I,  being  still  blinded  by  her  beauty, 
for,  oh,  my  friend,  the  women  of  the  Abazai  are  very  fair, 
said:  "Hast  thou  no  fear?"  And  she  answered:  "None 
— but  only  the  fear  that  I  do  not  die."  Then  said  I: 
"Have  no  fear."  And  she  bowed  her  head,  and  I  smote 
it  ofif  at  the  neck-bone  so  that  it  leaped  between  my  feet. 
Thereafter  the  rage  of  our  people  came  upon  me,  and  I 
hacked  off  the  breasts,  that  the  men  of  Little  Malikand 
might  knew  the  crime,  and  cast  the  body  into  the  water- 
course that  flows  to  the  Kabul  River.  "Dray  wara  yow 
dee!  Dray  wara  yow  dee!"  The  body  without  the 
head,  the  soul  without  light,  and  my  own  darkling  heart — 
all  three  are  one — all  three  are  one ! 

That  night,  making  no  halt,  I  went  to  Ghor  and  de- 
manded news  of  Daoud  Shah.  Men  said:  "He  is  gone 
to  Pubbi  for  horses.  What  wouldst  thou  of  him?  There 
is  peace  between  the  villages."  I  made  answer:  "Ay! 
The  peace  of  treachery  and  the  love  that  the  Devil  Atala 
bore  to  Gurel."  And  I  fired  thrice  into  the  gate  and 
laughed  and  went  my  way. 

In  those  hours,  brother  and  friend  of  my  heart's  heart, 
the  moon  and  the  stars  were  as  blood  above  me,  and  in  my 
mouth  was  the  taste  of  dry  earth.     Also,  I  broke  no  bread. 


238  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

and  my  drink  was  the  rain  of  the  Valley  of  Ghor  upon  my 
face. 

At  Pubbi  I  found  Mahbub  AH,  the  writer,  sitting  upon 
his  charpoy  and  gave  up  my  arms  according  to  your  law. 
But  I  was  not  grieved,  for  it  was  in  my  heart  that  I  should 
kill  Daoud  Shah  with  my  bare  hands  thus — as  a  man 
strips  a  bunch  of  raisins.  Mahbub  Ali  said:  "Daoud 
Shah  has  even  now  gone  hot-foot  to  Peshawur,  and  he 
will  pick  up  his  horses  upon  the  road  to  Delhi,  for  it  is 
said  that  the  Bombay  Tramway  Company  are  buying 
horses  there  by  the  truck-load;  eight  horses  to  the  truck." 
And  that  was  a  true  saying. 

Then  I  saw  that  the  hunting  would  be  no  little  thing, 
for  the  man  was  gone  into  your  borders  to  save  himself 
against  my  wrath.  And  shall  he  save  himself?  Am  I  not 
alive?  Though  he  run  northward  to  the  Dora  and  the 
snow,  or  southerly  to  the  Black  Water,  I  will  follow  him, 
as  a  lover  follows  the  footsteps  of  his  mistress,  and  coming 
upon  him  I  will  take  him  tenderly — Aho!  so  tenderly! — in 
my  arms,  saying:  "Well  hast  thou  done  and  well  shalt  thou 
be  repaid."  And  out  of  that  embrace  Daoud  Shah  shall 
not  go  forth  with  the  breath  in  his  nostrils.  Auggrh! 
Where  is  the  pitcher?  I  am  as  thirsty  as  a  mother-mare 
in  the  first  month. 

Your  law?  What  is  your  law  to  me?  When  the  horses 
fight  on  the  runs  do  they  regard  the  boundary  pillars;  or 
do  the  kites  of  Ali  Musjid  forbear  because  the  carrion  lies 
unde;-  the  shadow  of  the  Ghor  Kuttri?  The  matter  began 
across  the  border.  It  shall  finish  where  God  pleases. 
Here,  in  my  own  country,  or  in  hell.     All  three  are  one. 

Listen  now,  sharer  of  the  sorrow  of  my  heart,  and  I  will 
tell  of  the  hunting.  I  followed  to  Peshawur  from  Pubbi, 
and  I  went  to  and  fro  about  the  streets  of  Peshawur  like  a 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  239 

houseless  dog,  seeking  for  my  enemy.  Once  I  thought 
that  I  saw  him  washing  his  mouth  in  the  conduit  in  the 
big  square,  but  when  I  came  up  he  was  gone.  It  may  be 
that  it  was  he,  and,  seeing  my  face,  he  had  fled. 

A  girl  of  the  bazaar  said  that  he  would  go  to  Now- 
shera.  I  said:  "Oh,  heart's  heart,  does  Daoud  Shah 
visit  thee?"  and  she  said:  "Even  so."  I  said:  "I  would 
fain  see  him,  for  we  be  friends  parted  for  two  years.  Hide 
me,  I  pray,  here  in  the  shadow  of  the  window  shutter,  and 
I  will  wait  for  his  coming."  And  the  girl  said:  "Oh, 
Pathan,  look  into  my  eyes!"  And  I  turned,  leaning  upon 
her  breast,  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  swearing  that  I  spoke 
the  very  Truth  of  God.  But  she  answered:  "Never  friend 
waited  upon  friend  with  such  eyes.  Lie  to  God  and  the 
Prophet  but  to  a  woman  ye  can  not  lie.  Get  hence! 
There  shall  no  harm  befall  Daoud  Shall  by  cause  of  me." 

I  would  have  strangled  that  girl  but  for  the  fear  of  your 
police;  and  thus  the  hunting  would  have  come  to  naught. 
Therefore  I  only  laughed  and  departed,  and  she  leaned 
over  the  window-bar  in  the  night  and  mocked  me  down 
the  street.  Her  name  is  Jamun.  When  I  have  made  my 
account  with  the  man  I  will  return  to  Peshawur  and — her 
lovers  shall  desire  her  no  more  for  her  beauty's  sake.  She 
shall  not  be  Jamun,  but  Ak,  the  cripple  among  trees.  Ho! 
Ho!  Ak  shall  she  be! 

At  Peshawur  I  bought  the  horses  and  grapes,  and  the 
almonds  and  dried  fruits,  that  the  reason  of  my  wander- 
ings might  be  open  to  the  government,  and  that  there 
might  be  no  hinderance  upon  the  road.  P>ut  when  I 
came  to  Nowshera  he  was  gone,  and  I  knew  not  where  to 
go.  I  stayed  one  day  at  Nowshera,  and  in  the  night  a 
voice  spoke  in  my  ears  as  I  slept  among  the  horses.  All 
night  it  flew  round  my  head  and  would  not  cease  from 


240  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

whispering.  I  was  upon  my  belly,  sleeping  as  the  devils 
sleep,  and  it  may  have  been  that  the  voice  was  the  voice 
of  a  devil.  It  said:  "Go  south,  and  thou  shalt  come 
upon  Daoud  Shah."  Listen,  my  brother  and  chiefest 
among  friends — listen!  Is  the  tale  a  long  one?  Think 
how  it  was  long  to  me.  I  have  trodden  every  feague  of 
the  road  from  Pubbi  to  this  place;  and  from  Nowshera 
my  guide  was  only  the  voice  and  the  lust  of  vengeance. 

To  the  Uttock  I  went,  but  that  was  no  hindrance  to  me. 
Ho!  Ho!  A  man  may  turn  the  word  twice,  even  in  his 
trouble.  The  Uttock  was  no  uttock  (obstacle)  to  me;  and 
I  heard  the  voice  above  the  noise  of  the  waters  beating  on 
the  big  rock,  saying:  "Go  to  the  right."  So  I  went  to 
Pindigheb,  and  in  those  days  my  sleep  was  taken  from  me 
utterly,  and  the  head  of  the  woman  of  the  Abazai  was  be- 
fore me  night  and  day,  even  as  it  had  fallen  between  my 
feet.  "Dray  wara  yow  dee!  Dray  wara  yow  dee !"  Fire, 
ashes,  and  my  couch,  all  three  are  one — all  three  are  one! 

Now  I  was  far  from  the  winter  path  of  the  dealers  who 
had  gone  to  Sialkot  and  so  south  by  the  rail  and  the  Big 
Road  to  the  Hne  of  cantonments;  but  there  was  a  sahib 
in  camp  at  Pindigheb  who  bought  from  me  a  white  mare 
at  a  good  price,  and  told  me  that  one  Daoud  Shah  had 
passed  to  Shahpur  with  horses.  Then  I  saw  that  the 
warning  of  the  voice  was  true,  and  made  swift  to  come  to 
the  Salt  Hills.  The  Jhelum  was  in  flood,  but  I  could  not 
wait,  and,  in  the  crossing,  a  bay  stallion  was  washed  down 
and  drowned.  Herein  was  God  hard  to  me — not  in  re- 
spect of  the  beast,  of  that  I  had  no  care — but  in  this 
snatching.  While  I  was  upon  the  right  bank  urging  the 
horses  into  the  water,  Daoud  Shah  was  upon  the  left;  for 
— Alghias!  Alghiasf — the  hoofs  of  my  mare  scattered  the 
hot  ashes  of  his  fires  when  we  came  up  the  hither  bank  in 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  24I 

the  light  of  morning.  But  he  had  fled.  Hi.s  feet  were 
made  swift  by  the  terror  of  death.  And  I  went  south 
from  Shahpur  as  the  kite  flies.  T  dared  not  turn  aside, 
lest  I  should  miss  my  vengeance — which  is  my  right. 
From  Shahpur  I  skirted  by  the  Jhelum,  for  I  thought 
that  he  would  avoid  the  Desert  of  the  Rechna.  But,  pres- 
ently, at  Sahiwal,  I  turned  away  upon  the  road  to  Jhang, 
Samundri,  and  Gugera,  till,  upon  a  niglut,  the  mottled 
mare  breasted  the  fence  of  the  rail  that  runs  to  Mont- 
gomery. And  that  place  was  Okara,  and  the  head  of  the 
woman  of  the  Abazai  lay  upon  the  sand  between  my  feet. 
Thence  I  went  to  Fazilka,  and  they  said  that  I  was  mad 
to  bring  starved  horses  there.  The  Voice  was  with  me, 
and  I  was  not  mad,  but  only  wearied,  because  I  could  not 
find  Daoud  Shah.  It  was  written  that  I  should  not  find 
him  at  Rania  nor  Bahadurgarh,  and  I  came  into  Delhi 
from  the  west,  and  there  also  I  found  him  not.  My 
friend,  I  have  seen  many  strange  things  in  my  wander- 
ings. I  have  seen  devils  rioting  across  the  Rechna  as  the 
stallions  riot  in  spring.  I  have  heard  the  Djinns  calling 
to  each  other  from  holes  in  the  sand,  and  I  have  seen 
them  pass  before  my  face.  There  are  no  devils,  say  the 
sahibs?  They  are  very  wise,  but  they  do  not  know  all 
things  about  devils  or — horses.  Ho !  Ho !  I  say  to  you 
who  are  laughing  at  my  misery,  that  I  have  seen  the 
devils  at  high  noon  whooping  and  leaping  on  the  shoals 
of  the  Chenab.  And  was  I  afraid?  My  brother,  when 
the  desire  of  a  man  is  set  upon  one  thing  alone,  he  fears 
neither  God  nor  man  nor  devil.  If  my  vengeance  failed, 
I  would  splinter  the  gates  of  paradise  with  the  butt  of 
my  gun,  or  I  would  cut  my  way  into  hell  with  my  knife, 
and  I  would  call  upon  those  who  govern  there  for  the 
body  of  Daoud  Shah.      What  love  so  deep  as  hate? 

16 


242  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Do  not  speak.  I  know  the  thought  in  your  heart. 
Is  the  white  of  this  eye  clouded?  How  does  the  blood 
beat  at  the  wrist?  There  is  no  madness  in  my  flesh, 
but  only  the  vehemence  of  the  desire  that  has  eaten  me 
up.      Listen! 

South  of  Delhi  I  knew  not  the  country  at  all.  There- 
fore I  can  not  say  where  I  went,  but  I  passed  through 
many  cities.  I  knew  only  that  it  was  laid  upon  me  to 
go  south.  When  the  horses  could  march  no  more,  I 
threw  myself  upon  the  earth,  and  waited  till  the  day. 
There  was  no  sleep  with  me  in  that  journeying;  and 
that  was  a  heavy  burden.  Dost  thou  know,  brother  of 
mine,  the  evil  of  wakefulness  that  can  not  break — when 
the  bones  are  sore  for  lack  of  sleep,  and  the  sTcin  of  the 
tem.ples  twitches  with  weariness,  and  yet — there  is  no 
sleep — there  is  no  sleep?  "Dray  wara  yow  dee!  Dray 
wara  yow  dee!"  The  eye  of  the  sun,  the  eye  of  the 
moon,  and  my  own  unrestful  eyes — all  three  are  one — 
all  three  are  one! 

There  was  a  city  the  name  whereof  I  have  forgotten, 
and  there  the  voice  called  all  night.  That  was  ten  days 
ago.     It  has  cheated  me  afresh. 

I  have  come  hither  from  a  place  called  Hamirpur,  and, 
behold,  it  is  my  fate  that  I  should  meet  with  thee  to  my 
comfort,  and  the  increase  of  friendship.  This  is  a  good 
omen.  By  the  joy  of  looking  upon  thy  face  the  weari- 
ness has  gone  from  my  feet,  and  the  sorrow  of  my  so 
long  travel  is  forgotten.  Also  my  heart  is  peaceful ;  for 
I  know  that  the  end  is  near. 

It  may  be  that  I  shall  find  Daoud  Shah  in  this  city 
going  northward,  since  a  Hillman  will  ever  head  back 
to  his  hills  when  the  spring  warns.  And  shall  he  see 
those  hills  of  our  country?     Surely  I  shall  overtake  him! 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  243 

Surely  my  vengeance  is  safe!  Surely  God  hath  him  in 
the  hollow  of  His  hand  against  my  claiming.  There 
shall  no  harm  befall  Daoud  Shah  till  I  come;  for  I  would 
fain  kill  him  quick  and  whole  with  the  life  sticking  firm 
in  his  body.  A  pomegranate  is  sweetest  when  the  cloves 
break  away  unwilling  from  the  rind.  Let  it  be  in  the 
day-time,  that  I  may  see  his  face,  and  my  delight  may 
be  crowned. 

And  when  I  have  accomplished  the  matter  and  my 
honor  is  made  clean,  I  shall  return  thanks  unto  God, 
the  holder  of  the  scale  of  the  law,  and  I  shall  sleep.  From 
the  night,  through  the  day,  and  into  the  night  again  I 
shall  sleep;    and  no  dream  shall  trouble  me. 

And  now,  oh,  my  brother,  the  tale  is  all  told.  A/ii! 
Ahi!  Alghias!  Ahi! 


244  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  DUNGARA. 
See  the  pale  martyr  with  his  shirt  on  fire.— Printer's  Error. 

They  tell  the  tale  even  now  among  the  sal  groves  of 
the  Berbulda  Hill,  and  for  corroboration  point  to  the 
roofless  and  windowless  mission-house.  The  great  God 
Dungara,  the  God  of  Things  as  They  Are,  most  terrible, 
one-eyed,  bearing  the  red  elephant  tusk,  did  it  all;  and 
he  who  refuses  to  believe  in  Dungara  will  assuredly  be 
smitten  by  the  madness  of  Yat — the  madness  that  fell 
upon  the  sons  and  the  daughters  of  the  Buria  Kol  when 
they  turned  aside  from  Dungara  and  put  on  clothes.  So 
says  Athon  Daze,  who  is  High  Priest  of  the  Shrine  and 
Warden  of  the  Red  Elephant  tusk.  But  if  you  ask  the 
assistant  collector  and  agent  in  charge  of  the  Buria  Kol, 
he  will  laugh — not  because  he  bears  any  malice  against 
missions,  but  because  he  himself  saw  the  vengeance  of 
Dungara  executed  upon  the  spiritual  children  of  the 
Rev.  Justus  Krenk,  pastor  of  the  Tubingen  Mission,  and 
upon  Lotta,  his  virtuous  wife. 

Yet  if  ever  a  man  merited  good  treatment  of  the  gods 
it  was  the  Reverend  Justus,  one  time  of  Heildelberg, 
who,  on  the  faith  of  a  call,  went  into  the  wilderness  and 
took  the  blonde,  blue-eyed  Lotta  with  him.  "We  will 
these  heathen  now  by  idolatrous  practices  so  darkened 
better  make,"  said  Justus  in  the  early  days  of  his  career. 
"Yes,"  he  added,  with  conviction,  "they  shall  be  good 
and  shall  with  their  hands  to  work  learn.  For  all  good 
Christians  must  work."  And  upon  a  stipend  more  mod- 
est even  that  tfiat  of  an  English  lay-reader,  Justus  Krenk 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  2^f, 

kept  house  beyond  Kamala  and  the  gorge  of  Malair,  be- 
yond the  Berbulda  River  close  to  the  foot  of  the  blue 
hill  of  Panth  on  whose  summit  stands  the  Temple  of 
Dungara — in  the  heart  of  the  country  of  the  Buria  Kol — 
the  naked,  good-tempered,  timid,  shameless,  lazy  Buria 
Kol. 

Do  you  know  w^hat  life  at  a  mission  outpost  means? 
Try  to  imagine  a  loneliness  exceeding  that  of  the  smallest 
station  to  which  government  has  ever  sent  you — isola- 
tion that  weighs  upon  the  waking  eyelids  and  drives  you 
perforce  headlong  into  the  labors  of  the  day.  There  is 
no  post,  there  is  no  one  of  your  own  color  to  speak  to, 
there  are  no  roads:  there  is,  indeed,  food  to  keep  you 
alive,  but  it  is  not  pleasant  to  eat;  and  whatever  of  good 
or  beauty  or  interest  there  is  in  your  life,  must  come  from 
yourself  and  the  grace  that  may  be  planted  in  you. 

In  the  morning,  with  a  patter  of  soft  feet,  the  converts, 
the  doubtful,  and  the  open  scofifers,  troop  up  to  the 
veranda.  You  must  be  infinitely  kind  and  patient,  and, 
above  all.  clear-sighted,  for  you  deal  with  the  simplicity 
of  childhood,  the  experience  of  man,  and  the  subtlety  of 
the  savage.  Your  congregation  have  a  hundred  mate- 
rial wants  to  be  considered;  and  it  is  for  you,  as  you 
believe  in  your  personal  responsibility  to  your  Maker, 
to  pick  out  of  the  clamoring  crowd  any  grain  of  spiritu- 
ality that  may  lie  therein.  If  to  the  cure  of  souls  you 
add  that  of  bodies,  your  task  will  be  all  the  more  difficult, 
for  the  sick  and  the  maimed  will  profess  any  and  every 
creed  for  the  sake  of  healing,  and  will  laugh  at  you  be- 
cause you  are  simple  enough  to  believe  them. 

As  the  day  wears  and  the  impetus  of  the  morning  dies 
away,  there  will  come  upon  you  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  the  uselessness  of  your  toil.     This  must  be  striven 


246  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

against,  and  the  only  spur  in  your  side  will  be  the  belief 
that  you  are  playing  against  the  devil  for  the  living  soul. 
It  is  a  great,  a  joyous  belief;  but  he  v^ho  can  hold  it 
unwavering  for  four-and-twenty  consecutive  hours  must 
be  blessed  with  an  abundantly  strong  physique  and 
equable  nerve. 

Ask  the  gray  heads  of  the  Bannockburn  Medical  Cru- 
sade what  manner  of  life  their  preachers  lead;  speak  to 
the  Racine  Gospel  Agency,  those  lean  Americans  whose 
boast  is  that  they  go  where  no  Englishman  dare  follow; 
get  a  pastor  of  the  Tubingen  Mission  to  talk  of  his  ex- 
periences— if  you  can.  You  will  be  referred  to  the 
printed  reports,  but  these  contain  no  mention  of  the 
men  who  have  lost  youth  and  health,  all  that  a  man  may 
lose  except  faith,  in  the  wilds;  of  English  maidens  who 
have  gone  forth  and  died  in  the  fever-stricken  jungle  of 
the  Panth  Hills,  knowing  from  the  first  that  death  was 
almost  a  certainty.  Few  pastors  will  tell  you  of  these 
things  any  more  than  they  will  speak  of  that  young 
David  of  St.  Bees,  who,  set  apart  for  the  Lord's  work, 
broke  down  in  the  utter  desolation,  and  returned  half  dis- 
traught to  the  head  mission,  crying;  "There  is  no  God, 
but  I  have  walked  with  the  devil!" 

The  reports  are  silent  here,  because  heroism,  failure, 
doubt,  despair  and  self-abnegation  on  the  part  of  a  mere 
cultured  white  man  are  things  of  no  weight  as  compared 
to  the  saving  of  one  half-human  soul  from  a  fantastic 
faith  in  wood-spirits,  goblins  of  the  rock,  and  river-fiends. 

And  Gallio,  the  assistant  collector  of  the  country-side, 
"cared  for  none  of  these  things."  He  had  been  long  in 
the  district,  and  the  Buria  Kol  loved  him  and  brought 
him  offerings  of  speared  fish,  orchids  from  the  dim,  moist 
heart  of  the  forest,  and  as  much  game  as  he  could  eat. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  247 

In  return,  he  gave  them  quinine,  and  with  Athon  Daze, 
the  high  priest,  controlled  their  simple  policies. 

"When  you  have  been  some  years  in  the  country,"  said 
Gallio  at  the  Krenk's  table,  "you  grow  to  find  one  creed 
as  good  as  another.  I'll  give  you  all  the  assistance  in 
my  power,  of  course,  but  don't  hurt  my  Buria  Kol.  They 
are  a  good  people  and  they  trust  me." 

"I  will  them  the  Word  of  the  Lord  teach,"  said  Justus, 
his  round  face  beaming  with  enthusiasm,  "and  I  will 
assuredly  to  their  prejudices  no  wrong  hastily  without 
thinking  make.  But,  oh,  my  friend,  this  in  the  mind  im- 
partiality-of-creed-judgment-belooking  is  very  bad." 

"Heigh-ho!"  said  Gallio,  "I  have  their  bodies  and  the 
district  to  see  to,  but  you  can  try  what  you  can  do  for 
their  souls.  Only  don't  behave  as  your  predecessor  did, 
or  I'm  afraid  that  I  can't  guarantee  your  life." 

"And  that?"  said  Lotta,  sturdily,  handing  him  a  cup  of 
tea. 

"He  went  up  to  the  Temple  of  Dungara — to  be  sure 
he  was  new  to  the  country — and  began  hammering  old 
Dungara  over  the  head  with  an  umbrella;  so  the  Buria 
Kol  turned  out  and  hammered  him  rather  savagely.  I 
was  in  the  district,  and  he  sent  a  runner  to  me  with  a 
note,  saying:  'Persecuted  for  the  Lord's  sake.  Send 
wing  of  regiment.'  The  nearest  troops  were  about  two 
hundred  miles  off,  but  I  guessed  what  he  had  been  doing. 
I  rode  to  Panth  and  talked  to  old  Athon  Daze  like  a 
father,  telling  him  that  a  man  of  his  wisdom  ought  to 
have  known  that  the  sahib  had  sunstroke  and  was  mad. 
You  never  saw  a  people  more  sorry  in  your  life.  Athon 
Daze  apologized,  sent  wood  and  milk  and  fowls  and  all 
sorts  of  things;  and  I  gave  five  rupees  to  the  shrine  and 
told  Macnamara  that  he  had  been  injudicious.     He  said 


248  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

that  I  had  bowed  down  in  the  House  of  Rimmon;  but  if 
he  had  only  just  gone  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  in- 
sulted Palin  Deo,  the  idol  of  the  Suria  Kol^  he  would 
have  been  impaled  on  a  charred  bamboo  long  before  I 
could  have  done  anything,  and  then  I  should  have  had 
to  have  hanged  some  of  the  poor  brutes.  Be  gentle  with 
them,  padri — but  I  don't  think  you'll  do  mucli." 

"Not  I,"  said  Justus,  "but  my  Master.  We  will  with 
the  little  children  begin.  Many  of  them  will  be  sick — 
that  is  so.  After  the  children  the  mothers;  and  then 
the  men.  But  I  would  greatly  that  you  were  in  internal 
sympathies  with  us  prefer." 

Gallic  departed  to  risk  his  life  in  mending  the  rotten 
bamboo  bridges  of  his  people,  in  killing  a  too-persistent 
tiger  here  or  there,  in  sleeping  out  in  the  reeking  jungle, 
or  in  tracking  the  Suria  Kol  raiders  who  had  taken  a  few 
heads  from  their  brethren  of  the  Buria  clan.  A  knock- 
kneed  shambling  young  man  was  Gallio,  naturally  devoid 
of  creed  or  reverence,  with  a  longing  for  absolute  power 
which  his  undesirable  district  gratified. 

"No  one  wants  my  post."  he  used  to  say,  grimly,  "and 
my  collector  only  pokes  his  nose  in  when  he's  quite  cer- 
tain that  there  is  no  fever.  I'm  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 
and  Athon  Daze  is  my  viceroy." 

Because  Gallio  prided  himself  on  his  supreme  disregard 
of  human  life — though  he  never  extended  the  theory  be- 
yond his  own — he  naturally  rode  forty  miles  to  the  mis- 
sion with  a  tiny  brown  baby  on  his  saddle-bow. 

"Here  is  something  for  you,  padri,"  said  he.  "The 
Kols  leave  their  surplus  children  to  die.  Don't  see  why 
they  shouldn't,  but  you  may  rear  this  one.  I  picked  it  up 
beyond  the  Berbulda  fork.  I've  a  notion  that  the  mother 
has  been  following  me  through  the  woods  ever  since." 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  249 

"It  is  the  first  of  the  fold,"  said  Justus,  and  Lotta  caught 
up  the  screaming  morsel  to  her  bosom  and  hushed  it 
craftily;  while  as  a  wolf  hangs  in  the  field,  Matui,  who 
had  borne  it  and  in  accordance  with  the  law  of  her  tribe 
had  exposed  it  to  die,  panted  wearily  and  foot-sore  in  the 
bamboo  brake,  watching  the  house  with  hungry  mother- 
eyes.  What  would  the  omnipotent  assistant  collector  do? 
Would  the  little  man  in  the  black  coat  eat  her  daughter 
alive  as  Athon  Daze  said  was  the  custom  of  all  men  in 
black  coats? 

Matui  waited  among  the  bamboos  through  the  long 
night;  and,  in  the  morning,  there  came  forth  a  fair, 
white  woman,  the  like  of  whom  Matui  had  never  seen, 
and  in  her  arms  was  Matui's  daughter  clad  in  spotless  rai- 
ment. Lotta  knew  little  of  the  tongue  of  the  Buria  Kol, 
but  when  mother  calls  to  mother,  speech  is  easy  to  un- 
derstand. By  the  hands  stretched  timidly  to  the  hem  of 
her  gown,  by  the  passionate  gutturals  and  the  longing 
eyes,  Lotta  understood  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  So 
Matui  took  her  child  again — would  be  a  servant,  even  a 
slave,  to  this  wonderful  white  woman  for  her  own  tribe 
would  recognize  her  no  more.  And  Lotta  wept  with  her 
exhaustively,  after  the  German  fashion,  which  includes 
much  blowing  of  the  nose. 

"First  the  child,  then  the  mother,  and  last  the  man,  and 
to  the  glory  of  God  all,"  said  Justus  the  Hopeful.  And 
the  man  came,  with  a  bow  and  arrows,  very  angry  indeed, 
for  there  was  no  one  to  cook  for  him. 

But  the  tale  of  the  mission  is  a  long  one,  and  I  have  no 
space  to  show  how  Justus,  forgetful  of  his  injudicious 
predecessor,  grievously  smote  Moto,  the  husband  of 
Matui,  for  his  brutality ;  how  Moto  was  startled,  but  be- 
ing released  from  the  fear  of  instant  death,  took  heart  and 


250  PLAIN"  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

became  the  faithful  ally  and  first  convert  of  Justus;  how 
the  little  gathering  grew,  to  the  huge  disgust  of  Athon 
Daze;  how  the  priest  of  the  God  of  Things  as  They  Are 
argued  subtlely  with  the  priest  of  the  God  of  Things  as 
They  Should  Be,  and  was  worsted;  how  the  dues  of  the 
Temple  of  Dungara  fell  away  in  fowls  and  fish  and  honey- 
comb; how  Lotta  lightened  the  curse  of  Eve  among  the 
women,  and  how  Justus  did  his  best  to  introduce  the 
curse  of  Adam ;  how  the  Buria  Kol  rebelled  at  this,  say- 
ing that  their  god  was  an  idle  god,  and  how  Justus  par- 
tially overcame  their  scruples  against  work,  and  taught 
them  that  the  black  earth  was  rich  in  other  produce  than 
pig-nuts  only. 

All  these  things  belong  to  the  history  of  many  months, 
and  throughout  those  months  the  white-haired  Athon 
Daze  meditated  revenge  for  the  tribal  neglect  of  Dun- 
gara. With  savage  cunning  he  feigned  friendship  to- 
ward Justus,  even  hinting  at  his  own  conversion;  but  to 
the  congregation  of  Dungara  he  said,  darkly:  "They  of 
the  padri's  flock  have  put  on  clothes  and  worship  a  busy 
God.  Therefore  Dungara  will  afflict  them  grievously  till 
they  throw  themselves  howling  into  the  waters  of  the 
Berbulda."  At  night  the  Red  Elephant  Tusk  boomed 
and  groaned  among  the  hills,  and  the  faithful  jwaked  and 
said:  "The  God  of  Things  as  They  Are  matures  revenge 
against  the  back-sliders.  Be  merciful,  Dungara,  to  us 
thy  children,  and  give  us  all  their  crops!" 

Late  in  the  cold  weather  the  collector  and  his  wife 
came  into  the  Buria  Kol  country.  "Go  and  look  at 
Krenk's  mission,"  said  Gallic.  "He  is  doing  good  work 
in  his  own  way,  and  I  think  he'd  be  pleased  if  you  opened 
the  bamboo  chapel  that  he  has  managed  to  run  up.  At 
any  rate,  you'll  see  a  civilized  Buria  Kol." 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  25 1 

Great  was  the  stir  in  the  mission.  "Now  he  and  the 
gracious  lady  will  that  we  have  done  good  work  with 
their  own  eyes  see,  and — yes — we  will  him  our  converts 
in  all  their  new  clothes  by  their  own  hands  constructed 
exhibit.  It  will  a  great  day  be — for  the  Lord  always," 
said  Justus ;  and  Lotta  said  "Amen." 

Justus  had,  in  his  quiet  way,  felt  jealous  of  the  Basel 
Weaving  Mission,  his  own  converts  being  unhandy;  but 
Athon  Daze  had  latterly  induced  some  of  them  to  hackle 
the  glossy,  silky  fibers  of  a  plant  that  grew  plenteously  on 
the  Panth  Hill.  It  yielded  a  cloth  white  and  smooth  al- 
most as  the  tappa  of  the  South  Seas,  and  that  day  the 
converts  were  to  wear  for  the  first  time  clothing  made 
therefrom.      Justus  was  proud  of  his  work. 

"They  shall  in  white  clothes  clothed  to  meet  the  col- 
lector and  his  well-born  lady  come  down,  singing  'Now 
thank  we  all  our  God.'  Then  he  will  the  chapel  open, 
and — yes — even  Gallio  to  believe  will  begin.  Stand  so, 
my  children,  two  by  two,  and — Lotta,  why  do  they  thus 
themselves  scratch?  It  is  not  seemly  to  wriggle,  Nala, 
my  child.     The  collector  will  be  here  and  be  pained." 

The  collector,  his  wife,  and  Gallio  climbed  the  hill  to 
the  mission  station.  The  converts  were  drawn  up  in  two 
lines,  a  shining  band  nearly  forty  strong.  "Hah!"  said 
the  collector,  whose  acquisitive  bent  of  mind  led  him  to 
believe  that  he  had  fostered  the  institution  from  the  first. 

"Advancing,  I  see,  by  leaps  and  bounds." 

Never  was  truer  word  spoken!  The  mission  was  ad- 
vancing exactly  as  he  had  said — at  first  by  little  hops  and 
shuffles  of  shame-faced  uneasiness,  but  soon  by  the  leaps 
of  fly-stung  horses  and  the  bounds  of  m.addened  kanga- 
roos. From  the  hill  of  Panth  the  Red  Elephant  Tusk 
delivered  a  dry  and  anguished  blare.     The  ranks  of  the 


252 


PLAIN   TALES   FROM  THE  HILLS. 


converts  wavered,  broke  and  scattered  with  yells  and 
shrieks  of  pain,  while  Justus  and  Lotta  stood  horror- 
stricken. 

"It  is  the  judgment  of  Dungara!"  shouted  a  voice.  "I 
burn!      I  burn!      To  the  river  or  we  die!" 

The  mob  wheeled  and  headed  for  the  rocks  that  over- 
hung the  Berbulda  writhing,  stamping,  twisting  and  shed- 
ding its  garments  as  it  ran,  pursued  by  the  thunder  of  the 
trumpet  of  Dungara.  Justus  and  Lotta  fled  to  the  col- 
lector almost  in  tears. 

'T  can  not  understand!  Yesterday,"  panted  Justus, 
"they  had  the  Ten  Commandments —  What  is  this? 
Praise  the  Lord  all  good  spirits  by  land  or  by  sea.  Nala! 
Oh,  shame!" 

With  a  bound  and  a  scream  there  alighted  on  the  rocks 
above  their  heads,  Nala,  once  the  pride  of  the  mission,  a 
maiden  of  fourteen  summers,  good,  docile,  and  virtuous 
— now  naked  as  the  dawn  and  spitting  like  a  wild-cat. 

"Was  it  for  this!"  she  raved,  hurling  her  petticoat  at 
Justus;  "was  it  for  this  I  left  my  people  and  Dungara — 
for  the  fires  of  your  bad  place?  Blind  ape,  little  earth- 
worm, dried  fish  that  you  are.  you  said  that  I  should  never 
burn!  Oh,  Dungara,  I  burn  now!  I  bum  now!  Have 
mercy,  God  of  Things  as  They  Are!" 

She  turned  and  flung  herself  into  the  Berbulda,  and 
the  trumpet  of  Dungara  bellowed  jubilantly.  The  last 
of  the  converts  of  the  Tubingen  Mission  had  put  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  of  rapid  river  between  herself  and  her 
teachers. 

"Yesterday,"  gulped  Justus,  "she  taught  in  the  school 
A,  B,  C,  D.  '  Oh!     It  is  the  work  of  Satan!" 

But  Gallio  was  curiously  regarding  the  maiden's  petti- 
coat where  it  had  fallen  at  his  feet.     He  felt  its  texture", 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  253 

drew  back  his  shirt-sleeve  beyond  the  deep  tan  of  his 
hand,  and  pressed  a  fold  of  the  cloth  against  the  flesh.  A 
blotch  of  angry  red  rose  on  the  white  skin. 

"Ah!"  said  Gallio,  calmly,  '*I  thought  so." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Justus. 

"I  should  call  it  the  shirt  of  Nessus,  but —  Where  did 
you  get  the  fiber  of  this  cloth  from?" 

'  Athon  Daze,"  said  Justus.  "He  showed  the  boys  how 
it  should  manufactured  be." 

"The  old  fox!  Do  you  know  that  he  has  given  you  the 
Nilgiri  nettle — scorpion — Girardenia  heterophylla — to 
work  up.  No  wonder  they  squirmed!  Why,  it  stings 
even  when  they  make  bridge-ropes  of  it,  unless  it's  soaked 
for  six  weeks.  The  cunning  brute!  It  would  take  about 
half  an  hour  to  burn  through  their  thick  hides,  and 
then—!" 

Gallio  burst  into  laughter,  but  Lotta  was  weeping  in  the 
arms  of  the  collector's  wife,  and  Justus  had  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

"Girardenia  heterophylla!"  repeated  Gallio.  "Krenk, 
why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I  could  have  saved  you  this. 
Woven  fire!  Anybody  but  a  naked  Kol  would  have 
known  it,  and,  if  I'm  a  judge  of  their  ways,  you'll  never 
get  them  back." 

He  looked  across  the  river  to  where  the  converts  were 
still  wallowing  and  wailing  in  the  shallows,  and  the  laugh- 
ter died  out  of  his  eyes,  for  he  saw  that  the  Tubingen  Mis- 
sion to  the  Buria  Kol  was  dead. 

Never  again,  though  they  hung  mournfully  round  the 
deserted  school  for  three  months,  could  Lotta  or  Justus 
coax  back  even  the  most  promising  of  their  flock.  No! 
The  end  of  conversion  was  the  fire  of  the  bad  place — fire 
that  ran  through  the  limbs  and  gnawed  into  the  bones. 


254  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Who  dare  a  second  time  tempt  the  anger  of  Dungara? 
Let  the  httle  man  and  his  wife  go  elsewhere.  The  B'uria 
Kol  would  have  none  of  them.  An  unofficial  message 
to  Athon  Daze  that  if  a  hair  of  their  heads  were  touched, 
Athon  Daze  and  the  priests  of  Dungara  would  be  hanged 
by  Gallio  at  the  temple  shrine,  protected  Justus  and  Lotta 
from  the  stumpy,  poisoned  arrows  of  the  Buria  Kol,  but 
neither  fish  nor  fowl,  honey-comb,  salt  nor  young  pig 
were  brought  to  their  doors  any  more.  And,  alas !  man 
can  not  live  by  grace  alone  if  meat  be  wanting. 

"Let  us  go,  mine  wife,"  said  Justus;  "there  is  no  good 
here,  and  the  Lord  has  willed  that  some  other  man  shall 
the  work  take — in  good  time — in  His  own  good  time. 
We  will  go  away,  and  I  will — yes — some  botany  bestudy.'' 

If  any  one  is  anxious  to  convert  the  Buria  Kol  afresh, 
there  lies  at  least  the  core  of  a  mission-house  under  the 
hill  of  Panth.  But  the  chapel  and  school  have  long  since 
fallen  back  into  jungle. 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM   THE  HILLS.  255 


AT  HOWLI  THANA. 

His  own  shoe,  his  own  head. — Native  Proverb. 

As  a  messenger,  if  the  heart  of  the  Presence  be  moved 
to  so  great  favor.  And  on  six  rupees.  Yes,  sahib,  for  I 
have  three  Httle,  Httle  children  whose  stomachs  are  al- 
ways empty,  and  corn  is  now  but  twenty  pounds  to  the 
rupee.  I  will  make  so  clever  a  messenger  that  you  shall 
all  day  long  be  pleased  with  me,  and,  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  bestow  a  turban.  I  know  all  the  roads  of  the  sta- 
tion and  many  other  things.  Aha,  sahib!  I  am  clever. 
Give  me  service.  I  was  aforetime  in  the  police.  A  bad 
character?  Now  without  doubt  an  enemy  has  told  his 
tale.  Never  was  I  a  scamp.  I  am  a  man  of  clean  heart, 
and  all  my  words  are  true.  They  knew  this  when  I  was 
in  the  police.  They  said:  "Afzal  Khan  is  a  true  speaker 
in  whose  words  men  may  trust."  I  am  a  Delhi  Pathan, 
sahib — all  Delhi  Pathans  are  good  men.  You  have  seen 
Delhi?  Yes,  it  is  true  that  there  be  many  scamps  among 
the  Delhi  Pathans.  How  wise  is  the  sahib!  Nothing 
is  hid  from  his  eyes,  and  he  will  make  me  his  messenger, 
and  I  will  take  all  his  notes  secretly  and  without  ostenta- 
tion. Nay,  sahib,  God  is  my  witness  that  I  meant  no 
evil.  I  have  long  desired  to  serve  under  a  true  sahib — a 
virtuous  sahib.  Many  young  sahibs  are  as  devils  un- 
chained. With  these  sahibs  I  would  take  no  service — 
not  though  all  the  stomachs  of  my  little  children  were  cry- 
ing for  bread. 

Why  am  I  not  still  in  the  police?  I  will  speak  true  talk. 
An  evil  came  to  the  Thana — to  Ram  Baksh,  the  Havildar, 


256  PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS. 

and  Maula  Baksh,  and  Juggut  Ram  and  Bhim  Singh  and 
Suruj  Bui.  Ram  Baksh  is  in  the  jail  for  a  space,  and  so 
also  is  Maula  Baksh. 

It  was  at  the  Thana  of  Hovvfi,  on  the  road  that  leads  to 
Gokral-Seetarun,  wherein  are  many  dacoits.  We  were 
all  brave  men — Rustums.  Wherefore  we  were  sent  to 
that  Thana  which  was  eight  miles  from  the  next  Thana. 
All  day  and  all  night  we  watched  for  dacoits.  Why  does 
the  sahib  laugh?  Nay,  I  will  make  a  confession.  The 
dacoits  were  too  clever,  and,  seeing  this,  we  made  no  fur- 
ther trouble.  It  was  in  the  hot  weather.  What  can  a 
man  do  in  the  hot  days?  Is  the  sahib  who  is  so  strong — 
is  he,  even,  vigorous  in  that  hour?  We  made  an  arrange- 
ment with  the  dacoits  for  the  sake  of  peace.  That  was 
the  work  of  the  Havildar,  who  was  fat.  Ho !  ho !  sahib, 
he  is'now  getting  thin  in  the  jail  among  the  carpets.  The 
Havildar  said:  "Give  us  no  trouble,  and  we  will  give 
you  no  trouble.  At  the  end  of  the  reaping  send  us  a  man 
to  lead  before  the  judge,  a  man  of  infirm  mind  against 
whom  the  trumped-up  case  will  break  down.  Thus  we 
shall  save  our  honor."  To  this  talk  the  dacoits  agreed, 
and  we  had  no  trouble  at  the  Thana,  and  could  eat  melons 
in  peace,  sitting  upon  our  charpoys  all  day  long.  Sweet 
as  sugar-cane  are  the  melons  of  Howli. 

Now,  there  was  an  assistant  commissioner — a  Stunt 
Sahib,  in  that  district,  called  Yunkum  Sahib.  Aha!  He 
was  hard — hard  even  as  is  the  sahib  who,  without  doubt, 
will  give  me  the  shadow  of  his  protection.  Many  eyes 
had  Yunkum  Sahib,  and  moved  quickly  through  his  dis- 
trict. Men  called  him  The  Tiger  of  Gokral-Seetarun, 
because  he  would  arrive  unannounced  and  make  his  kill, 
and,  before  sunset,  would  be  giving  trouble  to  the  Tehsil- 
dars,  thirty  miles  away.     No  one  knew  the  comings  or 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  257 

the  goings  of  Yiinkum  Sahib.  He  had  no  camp,  and 
when  his  horse  was  weary  he  rode  upon  a  devil-carriage. 
I  do  not  know  its  name,  but  the  sahib  sat  in  the  midst 
of  three  silver  wheels  that  made  no  creaking,  and  drove 
them  with  his  legs,  prancing  like  a  bean-fed  horse — thus. 
A  shadow  of  a  hawk  upon  the  fields  was  not  more  with- 
out noise  than  the  devil-carriage  of  Yunkum  Sahib.  It 
was  here;  it  was  there;  it  was  gone;  and  the  rapport  was 
made,  and  there  was  trouble.  Ask  the  Tehsildar  of 
Rohestri  how  the  hen-stealing  came  to  be  known,  sahib. 

It  fell  upon  a  night  that  we  of  the  Thana  slept  accord- 
ing to  custom  upon  our  charpoys,  having  eaten  the  even- 
ing meal  and  drunk  tobacco.  When  we  awoke  in  the 
morning,  behold,  of  our  six  rifles  not  one  remained! 
Also,  the  big  police-book  that  was  in  the  Havildar's 
charge  was  gone.  Seeing  these  things,  we  were  very  much 
afraid,  thinking  on  our  parts  that  the  dacoits,  regard- 
less of  honor,  had  come  by  night,  and  put  us  to  shame. 
Then  said  Ram  Baksh,  the  Havildar:  "Be  silent!  The 
business  is  an  evil  business,  but  it  may  yet  go  well.  Let 
us  make  the  case  complete.  Bring  a  kid  and  my  tulwar. 
See  you  not  now,  oh  fools?  A  kick  for  a  horse,  but  a 
word  is  enough  for  a  man." 

We  of  the  Thana,  perceiving  quickly  what  was  in  the 
mind  of  the  Havildar,  and  greatly  fearing  that  the  service 
would  be  lost,  made  haste  to  take  the  kid  into  the  in- 
ner room,  and  attended  to  the  words  of  the  Havildar. 
"Twenty  dacoits  came,"  said  the  Havildar,  and  we,  taking 
his  words,  repeated  after  him  according  to  custom. 
"There  was  a  great  fight,"  said  the  Havildar,  "and  of  us 
no  man  escaped  unhurt.  The  bars  of  the  window  were 
broken.  Suruj  Bui,  see  thou  to  that;  and,  oh  men,  put 
speed  into  your  work,  for  a  runner  must  go  with  the 
17 


2S8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

news  to  The  Tiger  of  Gokral-Seetarun."  Thereon,  Suruj 
Bui,  leaning  with  his  shoulder,  brake  in  the  bars  of  the 
window,  and  I,  beating  her  with  a  whip,  made  the  Havil- 
dar's  mare  skip  among  the  melon-beds  till  they  were  much 
trodden  with  hoof-prints. 

These  things  being  made,  I  returned  to  the  Thana,  and 
the  goat  was  slain,  and  certain  portions  of  the  walls  were 
blackened  with  fire,  and  each  man  dipped  his  clothes  a 
little  into  the  blood  of  the  goat.  Know,  oh,  sahib,  that 
a  wound  made  by  man  upon  his  own  body  can,  by  those 
skilled,  be  easily  discerned  from  a  wound  wrought  by 
another  man.  Therefore,  the  Havildar,  taking  his  tul- 
war, smote  one  of  us  lightly  on  the  forearm  in  the  fat, 
and  another  on  the  leg,  and  a  third  on  the  back  of  the 
hand.  Thus  dealt  he  with  all  of  us  till  the  blood  came; 
and  Suruj  Bui,  more  eager  than  the  others,  took  out 
much  hair.  Oh,  sahib,  never  was  so  perfect  an  arrange- 
ment. Yea,  even  I  would  have  sworn  that  the  Thana 
had  been  treated  as  we  said.  There  was  smoke  and 
breaking  and  blood  and  trampled  earth. 

"Ride  now,  Maula  Baksh,"  said  the  Havildar,  "to  the 
house  of  the  Stunt  Sahib,  and  carry  the  news  of  the 
dacoity.  Do  you  also,  oh,  Afzal  Khan,  run  there,  and 
take  heed  that  you  are  mired  with  sweat  and  dust  on  your 
in-coming.  The  blood  will  be  dry  on  the  clothes.  I  will 
stay  and  send  a  straight  report  to  the  Dipty  Sahib,  and 
we  will  catch  certain  that  ye  know  of,  villagers,  so  that 
all  may  be  ready  against  the  Dipty  Sahib's  arrival." 

Thus  Maula  Baksh  rode  and  I  ran  hanging  on  the  stir- 
rup, and  together  we  came  in  an  evil  plight  before  The 
Tiger  of  Gokral-Seetarun  in  the  Rohestri  tehsil.  Our 
tale  was  long  and  correct,  sahib,  for  we  gave  even  the 
names  of  the  dacoits  and  the  issue  of  the  fight,  and  be- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  259 

sought  him  to  come.  But  The  Tiger  made  no  sign,  and 
only  smiled  after  the  manner  of  sahibs  when  they  have 
a  wickedness  in  their  hearts.  "Swear  ye  to  the  rapport?" 
said  he,  and  we  said:  "Thy  servants  swear.  The  blood 
of  the  fight  is  but  newly  dry  upon  us.  Judge  thou  if  it 
be  the  blood  of  the  ser\'-ants  of  the  Presence,  or  not." 
And  he  said:  "I  see.  Ye  have  done  well."  But  he  did 
not  call  for  his  horse  or  his  devil-carriage,  and  scour  the 
land  as  was  his  custom.  He  said:  "Rest  now  and  eat 
bread,  for  ye  be  wearied  men.  I  will  wait  the  coming  of 
the  Dipty  Sahib." 

Now,  it  is  the  order  that  the  Havildar  of  the  Thana 
should  send  a  straight  report  of  all  dacoities  to'the  Dipty 
Sahib.  At  noon  came  he,  a  fat  man  and  an  old,  and 
overbearing  withal,  but  we  of  the  Thana  had  no  fear  of 
his  anger;  dreading  more  the  silences  of  The  Tiger  of 
Gokral-Seetarun.  With  him  came  Ram  Baksh,  the  Hav- 
ildar, and  the  others,  guarding  ten  men  of  the  village  of 
Howli — all  mem  evil  affected  toward  the  police  of  the 
Sirkar.  As  prisoners  they  came,  the  irons  upon  their 
hands,  crying  for  mercy — Imam  Baksh,  the  farmer,  who 
had  denied  his  wife  to  the  Havildar,  and  others,  ill-con- 
ditioned rascals  against  whom  we  of  the  Thana  bore  spite. 
It  was  well  done,  and  the  Havildar  was  proud.  But  the 
Dipty  Sahib  was  angry  with  the  Stunt  for  lack  of  zeal, 
and  said  "Dam-Dam"  after  the  custom  of  the  English 
people,  and  extolled  the  Havildar.  Yunkum  Sahib  lay 
still  in  his  long  chair,  "Have  the  men  sworn?"  said  Yun- 
kum Sahib.  "Ay,  and  captured  ten  evil-doers,"  said  the 
Dipty  Sahib.  "There  be  more  abroad  in  your  charge. 
Take  horse — ride,  and  go  in  the  name  of  the  Sirkar!" 
"Truly  there  be  more  evil-doers  abroad,"  said  Yunkum 


26o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Sahib,  "but  there  is  no  need  of  a  horse.  Come  all  men 
with  me." 

I  saw  the  mark  of  a  string  on  the  temples  of  Imam 
Baksh,  Does  the  Presence  know  the  torture  of  the  Cold 
Draw?  I  saw  also  the  face  of  The  Tiger  of  Gokral-Seeta- 
run,  the  evil  smile  was  upon  it,  and  I  stood  back  ready 
for  what  might  befall.  Well  it  was,  sahib,  that  I  did  this 
thing.  Yunkum  Sahib  unlocked  the  door  of  his  bath- 
room, and  smiled  anew.  Within  lay  the  six  rifles  and  the 
big  police^book  of  the  Thana  of  Howli!  He  had  come 
by  night  in  the  devil-carriage  that  is  noiseless  as  a  ghoul, 
and,  moving  among  us  asleep,  had  taken  away  both  the 
guns  and  the  book!  Twice  had  he  come  to  the  Thana, 
taking  each  time  three  rifles.  The  liver  of  the  Havildar 
was  turned  to  water,  and  he  fell  scrabbling  in  the  dirt 
about  the  boots  of  Yunkum  Sahib,  crying,  "Have  mercy!" 

And  I?  Sahib,  I  am  a  Delhi  Pathan,  and  a  young  man 
with  little  children.  The  Havildar's  mare  was  in  the  com- 
pound. I  ran  to  her  and  rode;  the  black  wrath  of  the 
Sirkar  was  behind  me,  and  I  knew  not  whither  to  go. 
Till  she  dropped  and  died  I  rode  the  red  mare;  and  by 
the  blessing  of  God,  who  is  without  doubt  on  the  side  of 
all  just  men,  I  escaped.  But  the  Havildar  and  the  rest 
are  now  in  jail.  .  .  .  I  am  a  scamp!  It  is  as  the 
Presence  pleases.  God  will  make  the  Presence  a  Lord, 
and  give  him  a  rich  Memsahib  as  fair  as  a  peri  to  wife, 
and  many  strong  sons,  if  he  makes  me  his  orderly.  The 
mercy  of  Heaven  be  upon  the  sahib!  Yes,  I  will  only 
go  to  the  bazaar  and  bring  my  children  to  these  so-palace- 
like quarters,  and  then — the  Presence  is  my  father  and 
my  mother,  and  I,  Afzal  Khan,  am  his  slave. 

Ohe,  Sirdar-ji!  I  also  am  of  the  household  of  the 
sahib. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  261 


GEMINI. 

Great  Is  the  justice  of  the  White  Man — greater  the  power  of  a 
lie,  — Native  Proverb. 

This  is  your  English  justice,  protector  of  the  poor. 
Look  at  my  back  and  loins,  which  are  beaten  with  sticks 
— heavy  sticks!  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  there  is  no  jus- 
tice in  courts. 

There  were  two  of  us,  and  we  were  born  of  one  birth, 
but  I  swear  to  you  that  I  was  born  the  first,  and  Ram  Dass 
is  the  younger  by  three  full  breaths.  The  astrologer  said 
so,  and  it  is  written  in  my  horoscope — the  horoscope  of 
Durga  Dass. 

But  we  were  alike — I  and  my  brother  who  is  a  beast 
without  honor — so  alike  that  none  knew,  together  or 
apart,  which  was  Durga  Dass.  I  am  a  Alahajun  of  Pali 
in  Marwar,  and  an  honest  man.  This  is  true  talk.  When 
we  were  men,  we  left  our  father's  house  in  Pali,  and 
went  to  the  Punjab,  where  all  the  people  are  mud-heads 
and  sons  of  asses.  We  took  shop  together  in  Isser  Jang 
— I  and  my  brother — near  the  big  well  where  the  gov- 
ernor's camp  draws  water.  But  Ram  Dass,  who  is  with- 
out truth  made  quarrel  with  me,  and  we  were  divided. 
He  took  his  books,  and  his  pots,  and  his  Mark,  and  be- 
came a  bunnia — a  money-lender — in  the  long  street  of 
Isser  Jang,  near  the  gate-way  of  the  road  that  goes  to 
Montgomery.  It  was  not  my  fault  that  we  pulled  each 
other's  turbans,  I  am  a  ]\Iahajun  of  Pali,  and  I  always 
speak  true  talk.     Ram  Dass  was  the  thief  and  the  liar. 

Now,  no  man,  not  even  the  little  children,  coufd  at  one 


262  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

glance  see  which  was  Ram  Dass  and  which  was  Durga 
Dass.  But  all  the  people  of  Isser  Jang — may  they  die 
without  sons! — said  that  we  were  thieves.  They  used 
much  bad  talk,  but  I  took  money  on  their  bedsteads  and 
their  cooking-pots  and  the  standing  crop  and  the  calf  un- 
born, from  the  well  in  the  big  square  to  the  gate  of  the 
Montgomery  road.  They  were  fools,  these  people — unfit 
to  cut  the  toe-nails  of  a  Marwari  from  Pali.  I  lent  money 
to  them  all.  A  little,  very  little  only — here  a  pice  an.i 
there  a  pice. 

God  is  my  witness  that  I  am  a  poor  man!  The  money 
is  all  with  Ram  Dass — may  his  sons  turn  Christian,  and 
his  daughter  be  a  burning  fire  and  a  shame  in  the  house 
from  generation  to  generation !  May  she  die  unwed,  and 
be  the  mother  of  a  multitude  of  bastards !  Let  the  light 
go  out  in  the  house  of  Ram  Dass,  my  brother.  This  I 
pray  daily  twice — with  offerings  and  charms.  Thus  the 
trouble  began.  We  divided  the  town  of  Isser  Jang  be- 
tween us — I  and  my  brother.  There  was  a  landholder 
beyond  the  gates,  living  but  one  short  mile  out,  on  the 
road  that  leads  to  Montgomery,  and  his  name  was  Mo- 
hammed Shah,  son  of  a  Nawab.  He  was  a  great  devil 
and  drank  wine.  So  long  as  there  were  women  in  h.i? 
house,  and  wine  and  money  for  the  marriage-feasts,  he 
was  merry  and  wiped  his  mouth.  Ram  Dass  lent  him 
the  money,  a  lakh  or  half  a  lakh — how  do  I  knov/? — and 
so  long  as  the  money  was  lent,  the  landholder  cared  not 
what  he  signed. 

The  people  of  Isser  Jang  were  my  portion,  and  the 
landholder  and  the  out-town  was  the  portion  of  Ram 
Dass ;  for  so  we  had  arranged.  I  was  the  poor  man,  for 
the  people  of  Isser  Jang  were  without  wealth.  I  did 
what  I  could,  but  Ram  Dass  had  only  to  wait  without 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  263 

the  door  of  the  landholder's  garden-court,  and  to  lend 
him  the  money;  taking  the  bonds  from  the  hand  of  the 
steward. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  after  the  lending,  Ram  Dass 
said  to  the  landholder:  "Pay  me  my  money;"  but  the 
landholder  gave  him  abuse.  But  Ram  Dass  went  into 
the  courts  with  the  papers  and  the  bonds — all  correct — 
and  took  out  decrees  against  the  landholder;  and  the 
name  of  the  government  was  across  the  stamps  of  the 
decrees.  Ram  Dass  took  field  by  field,  and  mango-tree 
by  mango-tree,  and  well  by  well ;  putting  in  his  own  men 
— debtors  of  the  out-town  of  Isser  Jang — to  cultivate  the 
crops.  So  he  crept  up  across  the  land,  for  he  had  the 
papers,  and  the  name  of  the  government  was  across  the 
stamps,  till  his  men  held  the  crops  for  him  on  all  sides 
of  the  big  white  house  of  the  landholder.  It  was  well 
done;  but  when  the  landholder  saw  these  things  he  was 
very  angry,  and  cursed  Ram  Dass  after  the  manner  of  the 
Mohammedans, 

And  thus  the  landholder  was  angry,  but  Ram  Dass 
laughed  and  claimed  more  fields,  as  was  written  upon  the 
bonds.  This  was  in  the  month  of  Phagun.  I  took  my 
horse  and  went  out  to  speak  to  the  man  who  makes  lac- 
bangles  upon  the  road  that  leads  to  Montgomery,  be- 
cause he  owed  me  a  debt.  There  was  in  front  of  me, 
upon  his  horse,  my  brother  Ram  Dass.  And  when  he 
saw  me,  he  turned  aside  into  the  high  crops,  because 
there  was  hatred  between  us.  And  I  went  forward  till 
I  came  to  the  orange-bushes  by  the  landholder's  house. 
The  bats  were  flying,  and  the  evening  smoke  was  low 
down  upon  the  land.  Here  met  me  four  men — swash- 
bucklers and  Mohammedans — with  their  faces  bound  up, 
laying  hold  of  my  horse's  bridle  and  crying  out:     "This 


264  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

is  Ram  Dass!  Beat!"  Me  they  beat  with  their  staves — 
heavy  staves  bound  about  with  wire  at  the  end,  such 
weapons  as  those  swine  of  Punjabis  use — till,  having 
cried  for  mercy,  I  fell  down  senseless.  But  these  shame- 
less ones  still  beat  me,  saying:  "Oh,  Ram  Dass,  this  is 
your  interest — well  weighed  and  counted  into  your  hand, 
Ram  Dass."  I  cried  aloud  that  I  was  not  Ram  Dass,  but 
Durga  Dass,  his  brother,  yet  they  only  beat  me  the  more, 
and  when  I  could  make  no  more  outcry  they  left  me. 
But  I  saw  their  faces.  There  was  Elahi  Baksh,  who  runs 
by  the  side  of  the  landholder's  white  horse,  and  Nur  Ali, 
the  keeper  of  the  door,  and  Wajib  Ali,  the  very  strong 
cook,  and  Abdul  Latif,  the  messenger — all  of  the  house- 
hold of  the  landholder.  These  things  I  can  swear  on 
the  cow's  tail,  if  need  be,  but — Ahi!  Ahi! — it  has  been 
already  sworn,  and  I  am  a  poor  man  whose  honor  is  lost. 

When  these  four  had  gone  away  laughing,  my  brother 
Ram  Dass  came  out  of  the  crops  and  mourned  over  me 
as  one  dead.  But  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  prayed  him  to 
get  me  water.  When  I  had  drunk,  he  carried  me  on  his 
back,  and  by  by-ways  brought  me  into  the  town  of  Isser 
Jang.  My  heart  was  turned  to  Ram  Dass,  my  brother,  in 
that  hour,  because  of  his  kindness,  and  I  lost  my  enmity. 

But  a  snake  is  a  snake  till  it  is  dead;  and  a  liar  is  a  liar 
till  the  judgment  of  the  gods  takes  hold  of  his  heel.  I 
was  wrong  in  that  I  trusted  my  brother — the  son  of  my 
mother. 

When  we  had  come  to  his  house,  and  I  was  a  little  re- 
stored, I  told  him  my  tale,  and  he  said:  "Without  doubt, 
it  is  me  whom  they  would  have  beaten.  But  the  law 
courts  are  open,  and  there  is  the  justice  of  the  Sirkar 
above  all;  and  to  the  law  courts  do  thou  go  when  fliis 
sickness  is  overpast." 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  265 

Now  when  we  two  had  left  Pah  in  the  old  years,  there 
fell  a  famine  that  ran  from  Jeysulmir  to  Gurgaon,  and 
touched  Gogunda  in  the  south.  At  that  time  the  sister 
of  my  father  came  away  and  Fived  with  us  in  Isser  Jang; 
for  a  man  must  above  all  see  that  his  folk  do  not  die  of 
want.  When  the  quarrel  between  us  twain  came  about, 
the  sister  of  my  father — a  lean  she-dog  without  teeth — 
said  that  Ram  Dass  had  the  right,  and  went  with  him. 
Into  her  hands — because  she  knew  medicines  and  many 
cures — Ram  Dass,  my  brother,  put  me  faint  with  the 
beating  and  much  bruised  even  to  the  pouring  of  blood 
from  the  mouth.  When  I  had  two  days'  sickness  the 
fever  came  upon  me;  and  I  set  aside  the  fever  to  the  ac- 
count written  in  my  mind  against  the  landholder. 

The  Punjabis  of  Isser  Jang  are  all  the  sons  of  Belial 
and  a  she-ass,  but  they  are  very  good  witnesses,  bearing 
testimony  unshakenly  whatever  the  pleaders  may  say. 
I  would  purchase  witnesses  by  the  score,  and  each  man 
should  give  evidence,  not  only  against  Nur  Ali,  Wajib 
Ali,  Abdul  Latif  and  Elahi  Baksh,  but  against  the  land- 
holder, saying  that  he  upon  his  white  horse  had  called 
his  men  to  beat  me;  and,  further,  that  they  had  robbed 
me  of  two  hundred  rupees.  For  the  latter  testimony,  I 
would  remit  a  little  of  the  debt  of  the  man  who  sold  the 
lac-bangles,  and  he  should  say  that  he  had  put  the  money 
into  my  hands,  and  had  seen  the  robbery  from  afar,  but, 
being  afraid,  had  run  away.  This  plan  I  told  to  my 
brother  Ram  Dass;  and  he  said  that  the  arrangement 
was  good,  and  bade  me  take  comfort  and  make  swift 
work  to  be  abroad  again.  My  heart  was  opened  to  my 
brother  in  my  sickness,  and  I  told  him  the  names  of 
those  whom  I  would  call  as  witnesses — all  men  in  my 
debt,   but  of  that  the  magistrate  sahib  could  have  no 


266  PLx\IN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS. 

knowledge,  nor  the  landholder.  The  fever  stayed  with 
me,  and  after  the  fever,  I  was  taken  with  colic,  and  grip- 
ings  very  terrible.  In  that  day  I  thought  that  my  end 
was  at  hand,  but  I  know  now  that  she  who  gave  me  the 
medicines,  the  sister  of  my  father — a  widow  with  a 
widow's  heart — had  brought  about  my  second  sickness. 
Ram  Dass,  my  brother,  said  that  my  house  was  shut  and 
locked,  and  brought  me  the  big  door-key  and  my  books, 
together  with  all  the  moneys  that  were  in  my  house — even 
the  money  that  was  buried  under  the  floor;  for  I  was  in 
great  fear  lest  thieves  should  break  in  and  dig.  I  speak 
true  talk;  there  was  but  very  little  money  in  my  house. 
Perhaps  ten  rupees — perhaps  twenty.  How  can  I  tell? 
God's  my  witness  that  I  am  a  poor  man. 

One  night,  when  I  had  told  Ram  Dass  all  that  was  in 
my  heart  of  the  lawsuit  that  I  would  bring  against  the 
landholder,  and  Ram  Dass  had  said  that  he  had  made  the 
arrangement  with  the  witnesses,  giving  me  their  names 
written,  I  was  taken  with  a  new  great  sickness,  and  they 
put  me  on  the  bed.  When  I  was  a  little  recovered — I  can 
not  tell  how  many  days  afterward — I  made  inquiry  for 
Ram  Dass,  and  the  sister  of  my  father  said  that  he  had 
gone  to  Montgomery  upon  a  lawsuit.  I  took  medicine  and 
slept  very  heavily  without  waking.  When  my  eyes  were 
opened,  there  was  a  great  stillness  in  the  house  of  Ram 
Dass,  and  none  answered  when  I  called — not  even  the 
sister  of  my  father.  This  filled  me  with  fear,  for  I  knew 
not  what  had  happened. 

Taking  a  stick  in  my  hand,  I  went  out  slowly,  till  I 
came  to  the  great  square  by  the  well,  and  my  heart  was 
hot  in  me  against  the  landholder  because  of  the  pain  of 
every  step  I  took. 

I  called  for  Jowar  Singh,  the  carpenter,  whose  name 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  267 

was  first  upon  the  list  of  those  who  sihould  bear  evidence 
against  the  landholder,  saying:  "Are  all  things  ready, 
and  do  you  know  what  should  be  said?" 

Jowar  Singh  answered:  "What  is  this,  and  whence  do 
you  come,  Durga  Dass?" 

I  said:  "From  my  bed,  where  I  have  so  long  lain  sick 
because  of  the  landholder.  Where  is  Ram  Dass,  my 
brother,  who  was  to  have  made  the  arrangement  for  the 
witnesses?     Surely  you  and  yours  know  these  things?" 

Then  Jowar  Singh  said:  "What  has  this  to  do  with  us, 
oh,  liar?  I  have  borne  witness  and  I  have  been  paid,  and 
the  landholder  has,  by  the  order  of  the  court,  paid  both 
the  five  hundred  rupees  that  he  robbed  from  Ram  Dass 
and  yet  other  five  hundred  because  of  the  great  injury  he 
did  to  your  brother." 

The  well  and  the  jujube-tree  above  it  and  the  square  of 
Isser  Jang  became  dark  in  my  eyes,  but  I  leaned  on  my 
stick  and  said:  "Nay!  This  is  child's  talk  and  senseless. 
It  was  I  who  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  landholder,  and 
I  am  come  to  make  ready  the  case.  Where  is  my  brother 
Ram  Dass?" 

But  Jowar  Singh  shook  his  head,  and  a  woman  cried: 
"What  He  is  here?  What  quarrel  had  the  landholder 
with  you,  bunnia?  It  is  only  a  shameless  one  and  one 
without  faith  who  profits  by  his  brother's  smarts.  Have 
thest  bunm'as  no  bowels?" 

I  cried  again,  saying:  "By  the  Cow — by  the  Oath  of 
the  Cow,  by  the  Temple  of  the  Blue-throated  Mahadeo — 
I  and  I  only  was  beaten — beaten  to  the  death!  Let  our 
talk  be  straight  oh,  people  of  Isser  Jang,  and  I  will  pay 
for  the  witnesses."  And  I  tottered  where  I  stood,  for 
the  sickness  and  the  pain  of  the  beating  were  heavy  upon 
me. 


268  PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS. 

Then  Ram  Narain,  who  has  his  carpet  spread  under  the 
jujube-tree  by  the  well,  and  writes  all  letters  for  the  men 
of  the  town,  came  up  and  said:  "To-day  is  the  one-and- 
fortieth  day  since  the  beating,  and  since  these  six  days  the 
case  has  been  judged  in  the  court,  and  the  assistant  com- 
missioner sahib  has  given  it  for  your  brother  Ram  Dass, 
allowing  the  robbery,  to  which,  too,  I  bore  a  witness,  and 
all  things  else  as  the  witnesses  said.  There  were  many 
witnesses,  and  twice  Ram  Dass  became  senseless  in  the 
court  because  of  his  wounds,  and  the  Stunt  Sahib — the 
baba  Stunt  Sahib — gave  him  a  chair  before  all  the  plead- 
ers. Why  do  you  howl,  Durga  Dass?  These  things  fell 
as  I  have  said.     Was  it  not  so?" 

And  Jowar  Singh  said:  "That  is  truth.  I  was  there, 
and  there  was  a  red  cushion  in  the  chair." 

And  Ram  Narain  said:  "Great  shame  has  come  upon 
the  landholder  because  of  this  judgment,  and  fearing  his 
anger.  Ram  Dass  and  all  his  house  have  gone  back  to 
Pali.  Ram  Dass  told  us  that  you  also  had  gone  first,  the 
enmity  being  healed  between  you,  to  open  a  shop  in  Pali. 
Indeed,  it  were  well  for  you  that  you  go  even  now,  for 
the  landholder  has  sworn  that  if  he  catch  any  one  of  your 
house,  he  will  hang  him  by  the  heels  from  the  well-beam, 
and,  swinging  him  to  and  fro,  will  beat  him  with  staves 
till  the  blood  runs  from  his  ears.  What  I  have  said  in  re- 
spect to  the  case  is  true  as  these  men  here  can  testify — 
even  to  the  five  hundred  rupees." 

I  said:  "Was  it  five  hundred?"  And  Kirpa  Ram,  the 
jat  said:  "Five  hundred;  f©r  I  bore  witness  also." 

And  I  groaned,  for  it  had  been  in  my  heart  to  have  said 
two  hundred  only. 

Then  a  new  fear  came  upon  m«  and  my  bowels  turned 
to  water  and,  running  swiftly  to  the  house  of  Ram  Dass, 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  26<; 

I  sought  for  my  books  and  my  money  in  the  great  wooden 
chest  under  my  bedstead.  There  remained  nothing;  not 
even  a  cowrie's  value.  All  had  been  taken  by  the  devil 
who  said  he  was  my  brother.  I  went  to  my  own  house 
also  and  opened  the  boards  of  the  shutters;  but  there  also 
was  nothing  save  the  rats  among  the  grain-baskets.  In 
that  hour  my  senses  left  me,  and,  tearing  my  clothes,  I  ran 
to  the  well-place,  crying  out  for  the  justice  of  the  English 
on  my  brother  Ram  Dass,  and,  in  my  madness,  telling  all 
that  the  books  were  lost.  When  men  saw  that  I  would 
have  jumped  down  the  well,  they  believed  the  truth  of  my 
talk;  more  especially  because  upon  my  back  and  bosom 
were  still  the  marks  of  the  staves  of  the  landholder. 

Jowar  Singh,  the  carpenter,  withstood  me,  and  turning 
me  in  his  hands — for  he  is  a  very  strong  man — showed 
the  scars  upon  my  body,  and  bowed  down  with  laughter 
upon  the  well-curb.  He  cried  aloud  so  that  all  hear<l 
him,  from  the  well-square  to  the  caravansary  of  the  pil- 
grims: "Oho!  The  jackals  have  quarreled,  and  the  gray 
one  has  been  caught  in  the  trap.  In  truth,  this  man  has 
been  grievously  beaten,  and  his  brother  has  taken  the 
money  which  the  court  decreed!  Oh,  bjinnia,  this  shall 
be  told  for  years  against  you !  The  jackals  have  quarreled, 
and,  moreover,  the  books  are  burned.  Oh,  people  in- 
debted to  Durga  Dass — and  I  know  that  ye  be  many — 
the  books  are  burned!" 

Then  all  Isser  Jang  took  up  the  cry  that  the  books  were 
burned.  AJiif  Ahif  that  in  my  folly  I  had  let  that  escape 
my  mouth — and  they  laughed  throughout  the  city.  They 
gave  me  the  abuse  of  the  Punjabi,  which  is  a  terrible 
abuse  and  very  tez;  pelting  me  also  with  sticks  and  cow- 
dung  till  I  fell  down  and  cried  for  mercy. 

Ram  Narain,  the  letter-writer,  bade  the  people  cease, 


270  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HII  LS. 

for  fear  that  the  news  should  get  into  Montgomery,  and 
the  poHcemen  might  come  down  to  inquire.  He  said, 
using  many  bad  words:  "This  much  mercy  will  I  do  to 
you,  Durga  Dass,  though  there  was  no  mercy  in  your 
dealings  with  my  sister's  son  over  the  matter  of  the  dun 
heifer.  Has  any  man  a  pony  on  which  he  sets  no  store, 
that  this  fellow  may  escape?  If  the  landholder  hears  that 
one  of  the  twain  (and  God  knows  whether  he  beat  one  or 
both,  but  this  man  is  certainly  beaten)  be  in  the  city,  there 
will  be  a  murder  done,  and  then  will  come  the  police, 
making  inquisition  into  each  man's  house  and  eating  the 
sweet-seller's  stufiF  all  day  long." 

Kirpa  Ram,  the  jaf,  said:  "I  have  a  pony  very  sick. 
But  with  beating  he  can  be  made  to  walk  for  two  miles. 
If  he  dies,  the  hide-sellers  will  have  the  body." 

Then  Chumbo,  the  hide-seller,  said:  'T  will  pay  three 
annas  for  the  body,  and  will  walk  by  this  man's  side  till 
such  time  as  the  pony  dies.  If  it  be  more  than  two  miles, 
I  will  pay  two  annas  only." 

Kirpa  Ram  said:  "Be  it  so."  Men  brought  out  the 
pony,  and  I  asked  leave  to  draw  a  little  water  from  the 
well,  because  I  was  dried  up  with  fear. 

Then  Raim  Narain  said:  "Here  be  four  annas.  God 
has  brought  you  very  low,  Durga  Dass,  and  I  would  not 
send  you  away  empty,  even  though  the  matter  of  my  sis- 
ter's son's  dun  heifer  be  an  open  sore  between  us.  It  is  a 
long  way  to  your  own  country.  Go,  and  if  it  be  so  willed, 
live ;  but,  above  all,  do  not  take  the  pony's  bridle,  for  that 
is  mine." 

And  I  went  out  of  Isser  Jang,  amid  the  laughing  of  the 
huge-thighed  jats,  and  the  hide-seller  walked  by  my  side 
waiting  for  the  pony  to  fall  dead.     In  one  mile  it  died, 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  271 

and  being  full  of  fear  of  the  landholder,  I  ran  till  I  could 
run  no  more  and  came  to  this  place. 

But  I  swear  by  the  Cow,  I  swear  by  all  things  whereon 
Hindoos  and  Mussulmans,  and  even  the  sahibs  swear,  that 
I,  and  not  my  brother,  was  beaten  by  the  landholder. 
But  the  case  is  shut  and  the  doors  of  the  law  courts  are 
shut,  and  God  knows  where  the  baba  Stunt  Sahib — the 
mother's  milk  is  not  dry  upon  his  hairless  lip — is  gone. 
Alii!  Ahi!  I  'have  no  witnesses,  and  the  scars  will  heal, 
and  I  am  a  poor  man.  But,  on  my  father's  soul,  on  the 
oath  of  a  Mahajun  from  Pali,  I,  and  not  my  brother,  was 
beaten  by  the  landholder! 

What  can  I  do?  The  justice  of  the  English  is  as  a  great 
river.  Having  gone  forward  it  does  not  return.  How- 
beit,  do  you,  sahib,  take  a  pen  and  write  clearly  what  I 
have  said,  that  the  Dipty  Sahib  may  see,  and  reprove  the 
Stunt  Sahib,  who  is  a  colt  yet  unlicked  by  the  mare,  so 
young  is  he.  I,  and  not  my  brother,  was  beaten,  and  he 
is  gone  to  the  west — I  do  not  know  where. 

But,  above  all  things,  write — so  that  sahibs  may  read, 
and  his  disgrace  be  accomplished — that  Ram  Dass,  my 
brother,  son  of  Purun  Dass,  Mahajun  of  Pali,  is  a  swine 
and  a  night-thief,  a  taker  of  life,  an  eater  of  flesh,  a 
jackals-pawn,  without  beauty,  or  faith,  or  cleanliness,  or 
honor! 


272  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


AT  TWENTY-TWO. 

Narrow  as  the  womb,  deep  as  the  Pit,  and  dark  as  the  heart 
of  a  man. — Sonthal  Miner's  Proverb. 

"A  weaver  went  out  to  reap  but  stayed  to  unravel  the 
corn-stalks.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Is  there  any  sense  in  a  weaver?" 

The  never-ending  tussle  had  recommenced.  Janki 
Meah  glared  at  Kundoo,  but.  as  Janki  Meah  was  blind, 
Kundoo  was  not  impressed.  He  had  come  to  argue  with 
Janki  Meah,  and,  if  chance  favored,  to  make  love  to  the 
old  man's  beautiful  young  wife. 

This  was  Kundoo's  grievance,  and  he  spoke  in  the  name 
of  all  the  five  men  who,  with  Janki  Meah,  composed  the 
gang  in  No.  7  gallery  of  Twenty-two.  Janki  Meah  had 
been  blind  for  the  thirty  years  during  which  he  had  served 
the  Jimahari  Collieries  with  pick  and  crowbar.  All 
through  those  thirty  years  he  had  regularly,  every  morn- 
ing before  going  down,  drawn  from  the  overseer  his  allow- 
ance of  lamp-oil — just  as  if  he  had  been  an  eyed  miner. 
What  Kundoo's  gang  resented,  as  hundreds  of  gangs  had 
resented  before,  was  Janki  Meah's  selfishness.  He  would 
not  add  the  oil  to  the  common  stock  of  his  gang,  but 
would  save  and  sell  it. 

"I  knew  these  workings  before  you  were  born,"  Janki 
Meah  used  to  reply:  "I  don't  want  the  light  to  get  my 
coal  out  by,  and  I  am  not  going  to  help  you.  The  oil  is 
mine,  and  I  intend  to  keep  it." 

A  strange  man  in  many  ways  was  Janki  Meah,  the 
white-haired,  hot-tempered,  sightless  weaver  who  had 
turned  pitman.     All  day  long — except  on  Sundays  and 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  273 

Mondays,  when  he  was  usually  drunk — he  worked  in  the 
Twenty-two  shaft  of  the  Jimahari  Colliery  as  cleverly  as 
a  man  with  all  the  senses.  At  evening  he  went  up  in  the 
great  steam-hauled  cage  to  the  pit-bank,  and  there  called 
for  his  pony — a  rusty,  coal-dusty  beast,  nearly  as  old  as 
Janki  Meah.  The  pony  would  come  to  his  side,  and  Janki 
Meah  would  clamber  on  to  its  back  and  be  taken  at  once 
to  the  plot  of  land  which  he  like  the  other  miners,  re- 
ceived from  the  Jimahari  company.  The  pony  knew  that 
place,  and  when,  after  six  years,  the  company  changed  all 
the  allotments  to  prevent  the  miners  acquiring  pro- 
prietary rights,  Janki  Meah  represented,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  that  were  his  holding  shifted  he  would  never  be  able 
to  find  his  way  to  the  new  one.  "My  horse  only  knows 
that  place,"  pleaded  Janki  Meah,  and  so  he  was  allowed 
to  keep  his  land. 

On  the  strength  of  this  concession  and  his  accumulated 
oil-savings,  Janki  Meah  took  a  second  wife — a  girl  of  the 
Jolaha  main  stock  of  the  Meahs,  and  singularly  beautiful. 
Janki  Meah  could  not  see  her  beauty;  wherefore  he  took 
her  on  trust,  and  forbade  her  to  go  down  the  pit.  He  had 
not  worked  for  thirty  years  in  the  dark  without  knowing 
that  the  pit  was  no  place  for  pretty  women.  He  loaded 
her  with  ornaments — not  brass  or  pewter,  but  real  silver 
ones — and  she  rewarded  him  by  flirting  outrageously  with 
Kundoo  of  No.  7  gallery  gang.  Kundoo  was  really  the 
gang  head,  but  Janki  Meah  insisted  upon  all  the  work  be- 
ing entered  in  his  own  name,  and  chose  the  men  that  he 
worked  with.  Custom — stronger  even  than  the  Jimahari 
company — dictated  that  Janki,  by  right  of  his  years, 
should  manage  these  things,  and  should  also  work  despite 
his  blindness.  In  Indian  mines  where  they  cut  into  the 
solid  coal  with  the  pick  and  clear  it  out  from  floor  to  ceil- 

18 


274  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

ing,  he  could  come  to  no  great  harm.  At  home,  where 
they  undercut  the  coal  and  bring  it  down  in  crashing 
avalanches  from  the  roof,  he  would  never  have  been  al- 
lowed to  set  foot  in  a  pit.  He  was  not  a  popular  man,  be- 
cause of  his  oil-savings;  but  all  the  gangs  admitted  that 
Janki  knew  all  the  khads,  or  workings,  that  had  ever  been 
sunk  or  worked  since  the  Jimahari  company  first  started 
operations  on  the  Tarachunda  fields. 

Pretty  little  Unda  only  knew  that  her  old  husband  was 
a  fool  who  could  be  managed.  She  took  no  interest  in  the 
collieries  except  in  so  far  as  they  swallowed  up  Kundoo 
five  days  out  of  the  seven,  and  covered  him  with  coal-dust. 
Kundoo  was  a  great  workman,  and  did  his  best  not  to  get 
drunk,  because,  when  he  had  saved  forty  rupees,  Unda 
was  to  steal  everything  that  she  could  find  in  Janki's  house 
and  run  with  Kundoo  "over  the  hills  and  far  away"  to 
countries  where  there  were  no  mines,  and  every  one  kept 
three  fat  bullocks  and  a  milch-bufifalo.  While  this  scheme 
was  maturing  it  was  his  amiable  custom  to  drop  in  upon 
Janki  and  worry  him  about  the  oil-savings.  Unda  sat  in  a 
corner  and  nodded  approval.  On  the  night  when  Kundoo 
had  quoted  that  objectionable  proverb  about  weavers, 
Janki  grew  angry. 

"Listen,  you  pig,"  said  he,  "blind  I  am,  and  old  I 
am,  but,  before  ever  you  were  born,  I  was  gray  among  the 
coal.  Even  in  the  days  when  the  Twenty-two  khad  was 
unsunk  and  there  were  not  two  thousand  men  here,  I  was 
known  to  have  all  knowledge  of  the  pits.  What  khad  is 
there  that  I  do  not  know,  from  the  bottom  of  the  shaft  to 
the  end  of  the  last  drive?  Is  it  the  Baromba  khad,  the 
oldest,  or  the  Twenty-two  where  Tibu's  gallery  runs  up 
to  Number  5?" 

"Hear  the  old  fool  talk!"  said  Kundoo,  nodding  to 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  275 

Unda.  "No  gallery  of  Twenty-two  will  cut  into  five  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  rains.  We  have  a  month's  solid  coal 
before  us.     The  Babuji  says  so." 

"Babuji!  Pigji!  Dogji!  What  do  these  fat  slugs 
from  Calcutta  know?  He  draws  and  draws  and  draws, 
and  talks  and  talks  and  talks,  and  his  maps  are  all  wrong. 
I,  Janki,  know  that  this  is  so.  When  a  man  has  been  shut 
up  in  the  dark  for  thirty  years,  God  gives  him  knowledge. 
The  old  gallery  that  Tibu's  gang  made  is  not  six  feet  from 
Number  5." 

"Without  doubt  God  gives  the  blind  knowledge,"  said 
Kundoo,  with  a  look  at  Unda.  "Let  it  be  as  you  say. 
I,  for  my  part,  do  not  know  where  lies  the  gallery  of 
Tibu's  gang,  but  I  am  not  a  withered  monkey  who  needs 
oil  to  grease  his  joints  with." 

Kundoo  swung  out  of  the  hut  laughing,  and  Unda  gig- 
gled. Janki  turned  his  sightless  eyes  toward  his  wife  and 
swore.  "I  have  land,  and  I  have  sold  a  great  deal  of 
lamp-oil,"  mused  Janki;  "but  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  this 
child." 

A  week  later  the  rains  set  in  with  a  vengeance,  and  the 
gangs  paddled  about  in  coal-slush  at  the  pit-banks.  Then 
the  big  mine-pumps  were  made  ready,  and  the  manager  of 
the  collier)^  plowed  through  the  wet  toward  the  Tara- 
chunda  River  swelling  between  its  soppy  banks.  "Lord, 
send  that  this  beastly  beck  doesn't  misbehave,"  said  the 
manager,  piously,  and  he  went  and  took  counsel  with  his 
assistant  about  the  pumps. 

But  the  Tarachunda  misbehaved  very  much  indeed. 
After  a  fall  of  three  inches  of  rain  in  an  hour  it  was  obliged 
to  do  something.  It  topped  its  bank  and  joined  the  flood- 
water  that  was  hemmed  between  two  low  hills  just  where 
the  embankment  of  the  colliery  main  line  crossed.    When 


276  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

a  good  part  of  a  rain-fed  river,  and  a  fcAv  acres  of  flood- 
water,  wake  a  dead  set  for  a  nine-foot  culvert,  the  culvert 
may  spout  its  finest,  but  the  water  can  not  all  get  out. 
The  manager  pranced  upon  one  leg  with  excitement,  and 
his  language  was  improper. 

He  had  reason  to  swear,  because  he  knew  that  one  inch 
of  water  on  land  meant  a  pressure  of  one  hundred  tons  to 
the  acre;  and  here  were  about  five  feet  of  water  forming, 
behind  the  railway  embankment,  over  the  shallower  work- 
ings of  Twenty-two.  You  must  understand  that,  in  a 
coal-mine,  the  coal  nearest  the  surface  is  worked  first  from 
the  central  shaft.  That  is  to  say,  the  miners  may  clear 
out  the  stufif  to  within  ten,  twenty,  or  thirty  feet  of  the 
surface  and,  when  all  is  worked  out,  leave  only  a  skin  of 
earth  upheld  by  some  few  pillars  of  coal.  In  a  deep  mine 
where  they  know  that  they  have  any  amount  of  material 
at  hand,  men  prefer  to  get  all  their  mineral  out  at  one 
shaft,  rather  than  make  a  number  of  little  holes  to  tap  the 
comparatively  unimportant  surface  coal. 

And  the  manager  watched  the  flood. 

The  culvert  spouted  a  nine-foot  gush;  but  the  water 
still  formed,  and  word  was  sent  to  clear  the  men  out  of 
Twenty-two.  The  cages  came  up  crammed  and  crammed 
again  with  the  men  nearest  the  pit-eye,  as  they  call  the 
place  where  you  can  see  daylight  from  the  bottom  of  the 
main  shaft.  All  away  and  away,  up  the  long  black  galler- 
ies the  flare-lamps  were  winking  and  dancing  like  so  many 
fire-flies,  and  the  men  and  the  women  waited  for  the  clank- 
ing, rattling,  thundering  cages  to  come  down  and  fly  up 
again.  But  the  out-workings  were  very  far  oflf,  and  the 
word  could  not  be  passed  quickly,  though  the  heads  of 
the  gangs  and  the  assistant  shouted  and  swore  and 
tramped  and  stumbled.     The  manager  kept  one  eye  on 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  277 

the  great  troubled  pool  behind  the  embankment,  and 
prayed  that  the  culvert  would  give  way  and  let  the  water 
through  in  time.  With  the  other  eye  he  watched  the 
cages  come  up  and  saw  the  headmen  counting  the  roll  of 
the  gangs.  With  all  his  heart  and  soul  he  swore  at  the 
winder  who  controlled  the  iron  drum  that  wound  up  the 
wire  rope  on  which  hung  the  cages. 

In  a  little  time  there  was  a  down-draw  in  the  water 
behind  the  embankment — a  sucking  whirlpool,  all  yellow 
and  yeasty.  The  water  had  smashed  through  the  skin 
of  the  earth  and  was  pouring  into  the  old  shallow  work- 
ings of  Twenty-two. 

Deep  down  below,  a  rush  of  black  water  caught  the 
last  gang  waiting  for  the  cage,  and  as  they  clambered  in, 
the  whirl  was  about  their  waists.  The  cage  reached  the 
pit-bank,  and  the  manager  called  the  roll.  The  gangs 
were  all  safe  except  Gang  Janki,  Gang  Mogul,  and  Gang 
Rahim,  eighteen  men,  with  perhaps  ten  basket-women 
who  loaded  the  coal  into  the  little  iron  carriages  that  ran 
on  the  tramways  of  the  main  galleries.  These  gangs 
were  in  the  out-workings  three-quarters  of  a  mile  away, 
on  the  extreme  fringe  of  the  mine.  Once  more  the  cage 
went  down,  but  with  only  two  Englishmen  in  it,  and 
dropped  into  a  swirling,  roaring  current  that  had  almost 
touched  the  roof  of  some  of  the  lower  side-galleries.  One 
of  the  wooden  balks  with  which  they  had  propped  the  old 
workings  shot  past  on  the  current,  just  missing  the  cage. 

"If  we  don't  want  our  ribs  knocked  out,  we'd  better 
go,"  said  the  manager.  "We  can't  even  save  the  com- 
pany's props." 

The  cage  drew  out  of  the  water  with  a  splash,  and  a 
few  minutes  later,  it  was  ofificially  reported  that  there 
were  at  least  ten  feet  of  water  in  the  pit's-eye.     Now  ten 


278  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

feet  of  water  there  meant  that  all  other  places  in  the  mine 
were  flooded  except  such  galleries  as  were  more  than 
ten  feet  above  the  level  of  the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  The 
deep  workings  would  be  full,  the  main  galleries  would 
be  full,  but  in  the  high  workings  reached  by  inclines  from 
the  main  roads,  there  would  be  a  certain  amount  of  air 
cut  ofif,  so  to  speak,  by  the  water  and  squeezed  up  by  it. 
The  little  science-primers  explain  how  water  behaves 
when  you  pour  it  down  test-tubes.  The  flooding  of 
Twenty-two  was  an  illustration  on  a  large  scale. 

*  :f;  *  :):  :1:  * 

"By  the  Holy  Grove,  what  has  happened  to  the  air?" 
It  was  a  Sonthal  gangman  of  Gang  Mogul  in  No.  9  gal- 
lery, and  he  was  driving  a  six-foot  way  through  the  coal. 
Then  there  was  a  rush  from  the  other  galleries,  and  Gang 
Janki  and  Gang  Rahim  stumbled  up  with  their  basket- 
women. 

"Water  has  come  in  the  mine,"  they  said,  "and  there 
is  no  way  of  getting  out." 

"I  went  down,"  said  Janki — "down  the  slope  of  my 
gallery,  and  I  felt  the  water." 

"There  has  been  no  water  in  the  cutting  in  our  time," 
clamored  the  women.     "Why  can  not  we  go  away?" 

"Be  silent,"  said  Janki;  "long  ago,  when  my  father 
was  here,  water  came  to  Ten — no,  Eleven — cutting,  and 
there  was  great  trouble.  Let  us  get  away  to  where  the 
air  is  better." 

The  three  gangs  and  the  basket-women  left  No.  9  gal- 
lery and  went  further  up  No.  16.  At  one  turn  of  the 
road  the}/  could  see  the  pitchy  black  water  lapping  on  the 
coal.  It  had  touched  the  roof  of  a  gallery  that  they 
knew  well — a  gallery  where  they  used  to  smoke  their 
huqas   and  conduct  their  flirtations.     Seeing  this,  they 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  279 

called  aloud  upon  their  gods,  and  the  Meahs,  who  are 
thrice  bastard  Mohammedans,  strove  to  recollect  the 
name  of  the  Prophet.  They  came  to  a  great  open  square 
whence  nearly  all  the  coal  had  been  extracted.  It  was  the 
end  of  the  out-workings,  and  the  end  of  the  mine. 

Far  away  down  the  gallery  a  small  pumping-engine, 
used  for  keeping  dry  a  deep  working  and  fed  with  steam 
from  above,  was  faithfully  throbbing.  They  heard  it 
cease. 

"They  have  cut  off  the  steam,"  said  Kundoo,  hope- 
fully. "They  have  given  the  order  to  use  all  the  steam 
for  the  pit-bank  pumps.     They  will  clear  out  the  water." 

*Tf  the  water  has  reached  the  smoking-gallery,"  said 
Janki,  "all  the  company's  pumps  can  do  nothing  for  three 
days." 

"It  is  very  hot,"  moaned  Jasoda,  the  Meah  basket- 
woman.  "There  is  a  very  bad  air  here  because  of  the 
lamps." 

"Put  them  out,"  said  Janki;  "why  do  you  want  lamps?" 
The  lamps  were  put  out  amid  protests,  and  the  company 
sat  still  in  the  utter  dark.  Somebody  rose  quietly  and 
began  walking  over  the  coals.  It  was  Janki,  who  was 
touching  the  walls  with  his  hands.  "Where  is  the  ledge?" 
he  murmured  to  himself. 

"Sit,  sit!"  said  Kundoo.  "If  we  die,  we  die.  The  air 
is  very  bad." 

But  Janki  still  stumbled  and  crept  and  tapped  with  his 
pick  upon  the  walls.     The  women  rose  to  their  feet. 

"Stay  all  where  you  are.  Without  the  lamps  you  can 
not  see,  and  I — I  am  always  seeing,"  said  Janki.  Then 
he  paused,  and  called  out:  "Oh,  you  who  have  been  in 
the  cutting  more  than  ten  years,  what  is  the  name  of  this 
open  place?     I  am  an  old  man  and  I  have  forgotten." 


28o  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

"Bullia's  Room,"  answered  the  Sonthal  who  had  com- 
plained of  the  vileness  of  the  air. 

"Again,"  said  Janki. 

"Bullia's  Room." 

"Then  I  have  found  it,"  said  Janki.  "The  name  only 
had  sHpped  my  memory.     Tibu's  gang's  gallery  is  here." 

"A  lie,"  said  Kundoo.  "There  have  been  no  galleries 
in  this  place  since  my  day." 

"Three  paces  was  the  depth  of  the  ledge,"  muttered 
Janki  without  heeding — "and  oh,  my  poor  bones! — I 
have  found  it!  It  is  here,  up  this  ledge.  Come  all  you, 
one  by  one,  to  the  place  of  my  voice,  and  I  will  count 
you." 

There  was  a  rush  in  the  dark,  and  Janki  felt  the  first 
man's  face  hit  his  knees  as  the  Sonthal  scrambled  up  the 
ledge. 

"Who?"  cried  Janki. 

"I,  Sunua  Manji." 

"Sit  you  down,"  said  Janki.     "Who  next?" 

One  by  one  the  women  and  the  men  crawled  up  the 
ledge  which  ran  along  one  side  of  "Bullia's  Room."  De- 
graded Mohammedan,  pig-eating  Musahr  and  wild  Son- 
thai,  Janki  ran  his  hand  over  them  all. 

"Now  follow  after,"  said  he,  "catching  hold  of  my  heel, 
and  the  women  catching  the  men's  clothes."  He  did  not 
ask  whether  the  men  had  brought  their  picks  with  them. 
A  miner,  black  or  white,  does  not  drop  his  pick.  One 
by  one,  Janki  leading,  they  crept  into  the  old  gallery — 
a  six-foot  way  with  a  scant  four  feet  from  thill  to  roof. 

"The  air  is  better  here,"  said  Jasoda.  They  could  hear 
her  heart  beating  in  thick,  sick  bumps. 

"Slowly,  slowly,"  said  Janki,  "I  am  an  old  man,  and 
I  forget  many  things.     This  is  Tibu's  gallery,  but  where 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  28 1 

are  the  four  bricks  where  they  used  to  put  their  huqa 
fire  on  when  the  sahibs  never  saw?  Slowly,  slowly,  oh, 
you  people  behind." 

They  heard  his  hands  disturbing  the  small  coal  on  the 
floor  of  the  gallery  and  then  a  dull  sound.  "This  is  one 
unbaked  brick,  and  this  is  another  and  another.  Kundoo 
is  a  young  man — let  him  come  forward.  Put  a  knee  upon 
this  brick  and  strike  here.  When  Tibu's  gang  were  at 
dinner  on  the  last  day  before  the  good  coal  ended,  they 
heard  the  men  of  Five  on  the  other  side,  and  Five  worked 
their  gallery  two  Sundays  later — or  it  may  have  been  one. 
Strike  there,  Kundoo,  but  give  me  room  to  go  back." 

Kundoo,  doubting,  drove  the  pick,  but  the  first  soft 
crush  of  the  coal  was  a  call  to  him.  He  was  fighting  for 
his  life  and  for  Unda — pretty  little  Unda  with  rings  on  all 
her  toes — for  Unda  and  the  forty  rupees.  The  woman 
sung  the  "Song  of  the  Pick" — the  terrible,  slow,  swing- 
ing melody  with  the  muttered  chorus  that  repeats  the 
sliding  of  the  loosened  coal,  and,  to  each  cadence,  Kun- 
doo smote  in  the  black  dark.  When  he  could  do  no  more, 
Sunua  Manji  took  the  pick,  and  struck  for  his  life  and  his 
wife,  and  his  village  beyond  the  blue  Tiills  over  the  Tara- 
chunda  River.  An  hour  the  men  worked,  and  then  the 
women  cleared  away  the  coal. 

"It  is  further  than  I  thought,"  said  Janki.  "The  air 
is  very  bad;  but  strike,  Kundoo,  strike  hard." 

For  the  fifth  time  Kundoo  took  up  the  pick  as  the  Son- 
thai  crawled  back.  The  song  had  scarcely  recommenced 
when  it  was  broken  by  a  yell  from  Kundoo  that  echoed 
down  the  gallery:  ''Far  huaf  Par  hua/  We  are  through, 
we  are  through!"  The  imprisoned  air  in  the  mine  shot 
through  the  opening,  and  the  women  at  the  far  end  of  the 
gallery  heard  the  water  rush  through  the  pillars  of  "Bui- 


282  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.    " 

lia's  Room"  and  roar  against  the  ledge.  Having  fulfilled 
the  law  under  which  it  worked,  it  rose  no  further.  The 
women  screamed  and  pressed  forward.  "The  water  has 
come — we  shall  be  killed!     Let  us  go." 

Kundoo  crawled  through  the  gap  and  found  himself 
in  a  propped  gallery  by  the  simple  process  of  hitting 
his  head  against  a  beam. 

"Do  I  know  the  pits  or  do  I  not?"  chuckled  Janki. 
"This  is  the  Number  Five;  go  you  out  slowly,  giving  me 
your  names.  Ho!  Rahim,  count  your  gang!  Now  let  us 
go  forward,  each  catching  hold  of  the  other  as  before." 

They  formed  a  line  in  the  darkness  and  Janki  led  them 
— for  a  pitman  in  a  strange  pit  is  only  one  degree  less 
liable  to  err  than  an  ordinary  mortal  underground  for 
the  first  time.  At  last  they  saw  a  flare-lamp,  and  Gangs 
Janki,  Mogul  and  Rahim  of  Twenty-two  stumbled  dazed 
into  the  glare  of  the  draught-furnace  at  the  bottom  of 
Five:  Janki  feeling  his  way  and  the  rest  behind. 

"Water  has  come  into  Twenty-two.  God  knows  where 
are  the  others.  I  have  brought  these  men  from  Tibu's 
gallery  in  our  cutting;  making  connection  through  the 
north  side  of  the  gallery.  Take  us  to  the  cage,"  said 
Janki  Meah. 

At  the  pit-bank  of  Twenty-two,  some  thousand  people 
clamored  and  wept  and  shouted.  One  hundred  men — one 
thousand  men — had  been  drowned  in  the  cutting.  They 
would  all  go  to  their  homes  to-morrow.  Where  were 
their  men?  Little  Unda,  her  scarf  drenched  with  the 
rain,  stood  at  the  pit-mouth  calling  down  the  shaft  for 
Kundoo.  They  had  swung  the  cages  clear  of  the  mouth, 
and  her  only  answer  was  the  murmur  of  the  flood  in  the 
pit's-eye  two  hundred  and  sixty  feet  below. 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  283 

"Look  after  that  woman!  She'll  chuck  herself  down 
the  shaft  in  a  minute,"  shouted  the  manager. 

But  he  need  not  have  troubled;  Unda  was  afraid  of 
death.  She  wanted  Kundoo.  The  assistant  was  watch- 
ing the  flood  and  seeing  how  far  he  could  wade  into  it. 
There  was  a  lull  in  the  water,  and  the  whirlpool  had 
slackened.  The  mine  was  full,  and  the  people  at  the  pit- 
bank  howled. 

"My  faith,  we  shall  be  lucky  if  we  have  five  hundred 
hands  in  the  place  to-morrow!"  said  the  manager. 
"There's  some  chance  yet  of  running  a  temporary  dam 
across  that  water.  Shove  in  anything — tubs  and  bullock- 
carts  if  you  haven't  enough  bricks.  Make  them  work 
now  if  they  never  worked  before.  Hi !  you  gangers,  make 
them  work." 

Little  by  little  the  crowd  was  broken  into  detachments 
and  pushed  toward  the  water  with  promises  of  overtime. 
The  dam-making  began,  and  when  it  was  fairly  under 
way,  the  manager  thought  that  the  hour  had  come  for  the 
pumps.  There  was  no  fresh  inrush  into  the  mine.  The 
tall,  red,  iron-clamped  pump-beam  rose  and  fell,  and  the 
pumps  snored  and  guttered  and  shrieked  as  the  first  water 
poured  out  of  the  pipe. 

"We  must  run  her  all  to-night,"  said  the  manager, 
wearily,  "but  there's  no  hope  for  the  poor  devils  down 
below.  Look  here,  Gur  Sahai,  if  you  are  proud  of  your 
engines,  show  me  what  they  can  do  now." 

Gur  Sahai  grinned  and  nodded,  with  his  right  hand 
upon  the  lever  and  an  oil-can  in  his  left.  He  could  do  no 
more  than  he  was  doing,  but  he  could  keep  that  up  till  the 
dawn.  Were  the  company's  pumps  to  be  beaten  by  the 
vagaries  of  that  troublesome  Tarachunda  River?  Never, 
never!     And  the  pumps    sobbed    and    panted:  "Never, 


284  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

never!"  The  manager  sat  in  the  shelter  of  the  pit-bank 
roofing,  trying  to  dry  himself  by  the  pump-boiler  fire, 
and,  in  the  dreary  dusk,  he  saw  the  crowds  on  the  dam 
scatter  and  fly. 

"Thait's  the  end,"  he  groaned.  "  'Twill  take  us  six 
weeks  to  persuade  'em  that  we  haven't  tried  to  drown 
their  mates  on  purpose.  Oh,  for  a  decent,  rational 
Geordie!" 

But  the  flight  had  no  panic  in  it.  Men  had  run  over 
from  Five  with  astounding  news,  and  the  foremen  could 
not  hold  their  gangs  together.  Presently,  surrounded  by 
a  clamorous  crew.  Gangs  Rahim,  Mogul,  and  Janki,  and 
ten  basket-women,  walked  up  to  report  themselves,  and 
pretty  little  Unda  stole  away  to  Janki's  hut  to  prepare  his 
evening  meal. 

"Alone  I  found  the  way,"  explained  Janki  Meah, 
"and  now  will  the  company  give  me  pension?" 

The  simple  pit-folk  shouted  and  leaped  and  went  back 
to  the  dam,  reassured  in  their  old  belief  that,  whatever 
happened,  so  great  was  the  power  of  the  company  whose 
salt  they  eat,  none  of  them  could  be  killed.  But  Gur 
Sahai  only  bared  his  white  teeth  and  kept  his  hand  upon 
the  lever  and  proved  his  pumps  to  the  uttermost. 

*****  Hi 

"I  say,"  said  the  assistant  to  the  manager,  a  week  later, 
"do  you  recollect  'Germinal'?" 

"Yes.  Queer  thing.  I  thought  of  it  in  the  cage  when 
that  balk  went  by.     Why?" 

"Oh,  this  business  seems  to  be  'Germinal'  upside  down. 
Janki  was  in  my  veranda  all  this  morning,  telling  me 
that  Kundoo  had  eloped  with  his  wife — Unda  or  Anda,  I 
think  her  name  was." 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  285 

"Halloo!  And  those  were  the  cattle  that  you  risked 
your  life  to  clear  out  of  Twenty-two!" 

"No — I  was  thinking  of  the  company's  props,  not  the 
company's  men." 

"Sounds  better  to  say  so  now;  but  I  don't  believe  you, 
old  fellow." 


286  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


IN  FLOOD  TIME. 

Tweed  said  tae  Till:  — 
"What  gars  ye  rin  sae  still?" 

Till  said  tae  Tweed:  — 
"Though  ye  rin  wi'  speed 

An  I  rin  slaw — 

Yet  where  ye  droon  ae  man 

I  droon  twa." 

There  is  no  getting  over  the  river  to-night,  sahib. 
They  say  that  a  bullock-cart  has  been  washed  down  al- 
ready, and  the  ekka  that  went  over  half  an  hour  before 
you  came  has  not  yet  reached  the  far  side.  Is  the  sahib 
in  haste?  I  will  drive  the  ford-elephant  in  to  show  him. 
Ohe,  mahout  there  in  the  shed !  Bring  out  Ram  Pershad, 
and  if  he  will  face  the  current,  good.  An  elephant  never 
lies,  sahib,  and  Ram  Pershad  is  separated  from  his  frienu 
Kala  Nag.  He,  too,  wishes  to  cross  to  the  far  side.  Well 
done!  Well  done!  my  king!  Go  half-way  across,  ma- 
houtji,  and  see  what  the  river  says.  Well  done,  Ram 
Pershad !  Pearl  among  elephants,  go  into  the  river !  Hit 
him  on  the  head,  fool !  Was  the  goad  made  only  to  scratch 
thy  own  fat  back  with,  bastard?  Strike!  Strike!  What 
are  the  bowlders  to  thee,  Ram  Pershad,  my  Rustum,  my 
mountain  of  strength?     Go  in!     Go  in! 

No  sahib!  It  is  useless.  You  can  hear  him  trumpet. 
He  is  telling  Kala  Nag  that  he  can  not  come  over.  See! 
He  has  swung  round  and  is  shaking  his  head.  He  is  no 
fool.  He  knows  what  the  Barhwi  means  when  it  is  angry. 
Aha!  Indeed,  thou  art  no  fool,  my  child!  Salam,  Ram 
Pershad,  Bahadur!     Take  him  under  the  trees,  mahout. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  287 

and  see  that  he  gets  his  spices.  Well  done,  thou  chiefest 
among  tuskers.     Salam  to  the  sirkar  and  go  to  sleep. 

What  is  to  be  done?  The  sahib  must  wait  till  the  river 
goes  down.  It  will  shrink  to-morrow  morning,  if  God 
pleases,  or  the  day  after  at  the  latest.  Now  why  does  the 
sahib  get  so  angry?  I  am  his  servant.  Before  God,  I  did 
not  create  this  stream!  What  can  I  do?  i\Iy  hut  and  all 
that  is  therein  is  at  the  service  of  the  sahib,  and  it  is  begin- 
ing  to  rain.  Come  away,  my  lord.  How  will  the  river 
go  down  for  your  throwing  abuse  at  it?  In  the  old  days 
the  English  people  were  not  thus.  The  fire-carriage  has 
made  them  soft.  In  the  old  days,  when  they  drove  behind 
horses  by  day  or  by  night,  they  said  naught  if  a  river 
barred  the  way  or  a  carriage  sat  down  in  the  mud.  It  was 
the  will  of  God — not  like  a  fire-carriage  which  goes  and 
goes  and  goes,  and  would  go  though  all  the  devils  in  the 
land  hung  on  to  its  tail.  The  fire-carriage  hath  spoiled 
the  English  people.  After  all  what  is  a  day  lost,  or,  for 
that  matter,  what  are  two  days?  Is  the  sahib  going  to  his 
own  wedding,  that  he  is  so  mad  with  haste?  Ho!  Ho! 
Ho!  I  am  an  old  man  and  see  few  sahibs.  Forgive  me 
if  I  have  forgotten  the  respect  that  is  due  to  them.  The 
sahib  is  not  angry? 

His  own  wedding!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  The  mind  of  an  old 
man  is  like  the  numah-tree.  Fruit,  bud,  blossom,  and 
the  dead  leaves  of  all  the  years  of  the  past  flourish  to- 
gether. Old  and  new  and  that  which  is  gone  out  of  re- 
membrance, all  three  are  there!  Sit  on  the  bedstead, 
sahib,  and  drink  milk.  Or — would  the  sahib  in  truth  care 
to  drink  my  tobacco?  It  is  good.  It  is  the  tobacco  of 
Nuklao.  My  son.  who  is  in  service  there,  sent  it  to  me. 
Drink,  then,  sahib,  if  you  know  how  to  handle  the  tube. 
The  sahib  takes  it  like  a  Mussulman.       Wah!       Wah! 


288  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Where  did  he  learn  that?  His  own  wedding!  Ho!  Ho! 
Ho !  The  sahib  says  that  there  is  no  wedding-  in  the  mat- 
ter at  all?  Now  is  it  likely  that  the  sahib  would  speak 
true  talk  to  me  who  am  only  a  black  man?  Small  wonder, 
then,  that  he  is  in  haste.  Thirty  years  have  I  beaten  the 
gong  at  this  ford,  but  never  have  I  seen  a  sahib  in  such 
haste.  Thirty  years,  sahib!  That  is  a  very  long  time. 
Thirty  years  ago  this  ford  was  on  the  track  of  the  bun- 
jaras,  and  I  have  seen  two  thousand  pack-bullocks  cross 
in  one  night.  Now  the  rail  has  come,  and  the  fire-car- 
riage says  "buz-buz-buz,"  and  a  hundred  lakhs  of  maunds 
slide  across  that  big  bridge.  It  is  very  wonderful;  but 
the  ford  is  lonely  now  that  there  are  no  bunjaras  to  camp 
under  the  trees. 

Nay,  do  not  trouble  to  look  at  the  sky  without.  It  will 
rain  till  the  dawn.  Listen!  The  bowlders  are  talking  to- 
night in  the  bed  of  the  river.  Hear  them!  They  would 
be  husking  your  bones,  sahib,  had  you  tried  to  cross.  See, 
I  will  shut  the  door  and  no  rain  can  enter.  Wahi!  Ahi! 
Ugh!  Thirty  years  on  the  banks  of  the  ford!  An  old 
man  am  I  and — where  is  the  oil  for  the  lamp? 

^  ^  ^  -,'  ^  ^c 

Your  pardon,  but,  because  of  my  years,  I  sleep  no 
sounder  than  a  dog;  and  you  moved  to  the  door.  Look 
then,  sahib.  Look  and  listen.  A  full  half  kos  from  bank 
to  bank  is  the  stream  now — you  can  see  it  under  the  stars 
— and  there  are  ten  feet  of  water  therein.  It  will  not  shrink 
because  of  the  anger  in  your  eyes,  and  it  will  not  be  quiet 
on  account  of  your  curses.  Which  is  louder,  sahib — your 
voice  or  the  voice  of  the  river?  Call  to  it — perhaps  it  will 
be  ashamed.  Lie  down  and  sleep  afresh,  sahib.  I  know 
the  anger  of  the  Barhwi  when  there  has  fallen  rain  in  the 
foot-hills.     I  swam  the  flood  once,  on  a  night  tenfold 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  289 

worse  than  this,  and  by  the  favor  of  God  I  was  released 
from  death  when  I  had  come  to  the  very  gates  thereof. 

May  I  tell  the  tale?  Very  good  talk.  I  will  fill  the 
pipe  anew. 

Thirty  years  ago  it  was,  when  I  was  a  young  man  and 
had  but  newly  come  to  the  ford.  I  was  strong  then,  and 
the  bunjaras  had  no  doubt  when  I  said  "this  ford  is 
clear."  I  have  toiled  all  night  up  to  my  shoulder-blades 
in  running  water  amid  a  hundred  bullocks  mad  with  fear, 
and  have  brought  them  across  losing  not  a  hoof.  When 
all  was  done  I  fetched  the  shivering  men,  and  they  gave 
me  for  reward  the  pick  of  their  cattle — the  bell-bullock  of 
the  drove.  So  great  was  the  honor  in  which  I  was  held! 
But  to-day  when  the  rain  falls  and  the  river  rises  I  creep 
into  my  hut  and  whimper  like  a  dog.  The  strength  is 
gone  from  me.  I  am  an  old  man  and  the  fire-carriage  has 
made  the  ford  desolate.  They  were  wont  to  call  me  the 
Strong  One  of  the  Barhwi. 

Behold  my  face,  sahib.  It  is  the  face  of  a  monkey. 
And  my  arm.  It  is  the  arm  of  an  old  woman.  I  swear  to 
you,  sahib,  that  a  woman  has  loved  this  face  and  has  rest- 
ed in  the  hollow  of  this  arm.  Twenty  years  ago,  sahib. 
Believe  me,  this  was  true  talk — tw-enty  years  ago. 

Come  to  the  door  and  look  across.  Can  you  see  a  thin 
fire  very  far  away  down  the  stream?  That  is  the  temple- 
fire,  in  the  shrine  of  Hanuman,  of  the  village  of  Pateera. 
North,  under  the  big  star,  is  the  village  itself,  but  it  is  hid- 
den by  a  bend  of  the  river.  Is  that  far  to  swim,  sahib? 
Would  you  take  of¥  your  clothes  and  adventure?  Yet  I 
swam  to  Pateera — not  once  but  many  times;  and  there 
are  muggers  in  the  river  too. 

Love  knows  no  caste;  else  why  should  I,  a  Mussulman 
and  the  son  of  a  Mussulman,  have  sought  a  Hindoo 

19 


290  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

woman — a  widow  of  the  Hindoos — the  sister  of  the  head- 
man of  Pateera?  But  it  was  even  so.  They  of  the  head- 
man's household  came  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Muttra  when 
slie  was  but  newly  a  bride.  Silver  tires  were  upon  the 
wheels  of  the  bullock-cart,  and  silken  curtains  hid  the 
w  Oman.  Sahib,  I  made  no  haste  in  their  conveyance,  for 
the  wind  parted  the  curtains  and  I  saw  her.  When  they 
returned  from  pilgrimage  the  boy  that  was  her  husband 
had  died,  and  I  saw  her  again  in  the  bullock-cart.  By 
God,  these  Hindoos  are  fools!  What  was  it  to  me 
whether  she  was  Hindoo  or  Jain — scavenger,  leper  or 
whole?  I  would  have  married  her  and  made  her  a  home 
by  the  ford.  The  seventh  of  the  nine  bars  says  that  a  man 
may  not  marry  one  of  the  idolaters.  Is  that  truth?  Both 
Shiahs  and  Sunnis  say  that  a  Mussulman  may  not  marry 
one  of  the  idolators?  Is  the  sahib  a  priest,  then,  that  he 
knows  so  much?  I  will  tell  him  something  that  he  does 
not  know.  There  is  neither  Shiah  nor  Sunni,  forbidden 
nor  idolater,  in  love;  and  the  nine  bars  are  but  nine  little 
fagots  that  the  flame  of  love  utterly  burns  away.  In 
truth,  I  would  have  taken  her;  but  what  could  1  do?  The 
headman  would  have  sent  his  men  to  break  my  head  witli 
staves.  I  am  not — I  was  not — afraid  of  any  five  men; 
but  against  half  a  village  who  can  prevail? 

Therefore  it  was  my  custom,  these  things  having  been 
arranged  between  us  twain,  to  go  by  night  to  the  village 
of  Pateera,  and  there  we  met  among  the  crops;  no  man 
knowing  aught  of  the  matter.  Behold,  now!  I  was  wont 
to  cross  here,  skirting  the  jungle  to  the  river  bend  where 
the  railway  bridge  is,  and  thence  across  the  elbow  of  land 
to  Pateera.  The  light  of  the  shrine  was  my  guide  when 
the  nights  were  dark.  That  jungle  near  the  river  is  very 
full  of  snakes — little  karaits  that  sleep  on  the  sand — and 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  29I 

moreover,  her  brothers  would  have  slain  me  had  they 
found  me  in  the  crops.  But  none  knew — none  knew  save 
she  and  I;  and  the  blown  sand  of  the  river  bed  covered 
the  track  of  my  feet.  In  the  hot  months  it  was  an  easy 
thing  to  pass  from  the  ford  to  Pateera,  and  in  the  first 
rains,  when  the  river  rose  slowly,  it  was  an  easy  thing  also. 
I  set  the  strength  of  my  body  against  the  strength  of  the 
stream,  and  nightly  I  eat  in  my  hut  here  and  drank  at 
Pateera  yonder.  She  had  said  that  one  Hirnam  Singh,  a 
scamp,  had  sought  her,  and  he  was  of  a  village  up  the 
river  but  on  the  same  bank.  All  Sikhs  are  dogs,  and  they 
have  refused  in  their  folly  that  good  gift  of  God — tobacco. 
I  was  ready  to  destroy  Hirnam  Singh  that  ever  he  had 
come  nigh  her;  and  the  more  because  he  had  sworn  to 
her  that  she  had  a  lover,  and  that  he  would  lie  in  wait 
and  give  the  name  to  the  headman  unless  she  went  away 
with  him.     What  curs  are  these  Sikhs!" 

After  that  news  I  swam  always  with  a  little  sharp  knife 
in  my  belt,  and  evil  would  it  have  been  for  a  man  had  he 
stayed  me.  I  knew  not  the  face  of  Hirnam  Singh,  but  I 
would  have  killed  any  one  who  came  between  me  and 
her. 

Upon  a  night  in  the  beginning  of  the  rains  I  was 
minded  to  go  across  to  Pateera,  albeit  the  river  was  angry. 
Now  the  nature  of  the  Barhwi  is  this,  sahib.  In  twenty 
breaths  it  comes  down  from  the  hills,  a  wall  three  feet 
high,  and  I  have  seen  it,  between  the  lighting  of  a  fire  and 
the  cooking  of  a  flapjack,  grow  from  the  runnel  to  a  sister 
of  the  Jumna. 

When  I  left  this  bank  there  was  a  shoal  a  half  mile 
down,  and  I  made  shift  to  fetch  it  and  draw  breath  there 
ere  going  forward;  for  I  felt  the  hands  of  the  river  heavy 
upon  my  heels.     Yet  what  will  a  young  man  not  do  for 


292  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Love's  sake?  There  was  but  little  light  from  the  stars,  and 
midway  to  the  shoal  a  branch  of  the  stinking-  deodar-tree 
brushed  my  mouth  as  I  swam.  That  was  a  sign  of  heavy 
rain  in  the  foot-hills  and  beyond,  for  the  deodar  is  a  strong- 
tree,  not  easily  shaken  from  the  hill-sides.  I  made  haste, 
the  river  aiding  me,  but  ere  I  had  touched  the  shoal,  the 
pulse  of  the  stream  beat,  as  it  were,  within  me  and  around, 
and,  behold,  the  shoal  was  gone  and  I  rode  high  on  the 
crest  of  a  wave  that  ran  from  bank  to  bank.  Has  the 
sahib  ever  been  cast  into  much  water  that  fights  and  will 
not  let  a  man  use  his  limbs?  To  me,  my  head  up  on  the 
water,  it  seemed  as  though  there  were  naught  but  water 
to  the  world's  end,  and  the  river  drove  me  with  its  drift- 
wood. A  man  is  a  very  little  thing  in  the  belly  of  a  flood. 
And  this  flood,  though  I  knew  it  not,  was  the  Great  Flood 
about  which  men  talk  still.  My  liver  was  dissolved  and  I 
lay  like  a  log  upon  my  back  in  the  fear  of  death.  There 
were  living  things  in  the  water,  crying  and  howling  griev- 
ously— beasts  of  the  forest  and  cattle,  and  once  the  voice 
of  a  man  asking  for  help.  But  the  rain  came  and  lashed 
the  water  white,  and  I  heard  no  more  save  the  roar  of  the 
bowlders  below  and  the  roar  of  the  rain  above.  Thus  I 
was  whirled  down-stream,  wrestling  for  the  breath  in  me. 
It  is  very  hard  to  die  when  one  is  young.  Can  the  sahib, 
standing  here,  see  the  railway  bridge?  Look,  there  are 
the  lights  of  the  mail-train  going  to  Peshawur!  The 
bridge  is  now  twenty  feet  above  the  river,  but  upon  that 
night  the  water  was  roaring  against  the  lattice-work  and 
against  the  lattice  came  I  feet  first.  But  much  driftwood 
was  piled  there  and  upon  the  piers,  and  I  took  no  great 
hurt.  Only  the  river  pressed  me  as  a  strong  man  presses 
a  weaker.  Scarcely  could  I  take  hold  of  the  lattice-work 
and  crawl  to  the  upper  boom.     Sahib,  the  water  was  foam- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  293 

ing  across  the  rails  a  foot  deep!  Judge  therefore  what 
manner  of  flood  it  must  have  been.  I  could  not  hear.  I 
could  not  see.  I  could  but  lie  on  the  boom  and  pant  for 
breath. 

After  awhile  the  rain  ceased  and  there  came  out  in  the 
sky  certain  new  washed  stars,  and  by  their  light  I  saw  that 
there  was  no  end  to  the  black  water  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
travel,  and  the  water  had  risen  upon  the  rails.  There  were 
dead  beasts  in  the  driftwood  on  the  piers,  and  others 
caught  by  the  neck  in  the  lattice-work,  and  others  not  yet 
drowned  who  strove  to  find  a  foothold  on  the  lattice-work 
— buffaloes  and  kine,  and  wild  pig  and  deer  one  or  two, 
and  snakes  and  jackals  past  all  counting.  Their  bodies 
were  black  upon  the  left  side  of  the  bridge,  but  the  smaller 
of  them  were  forced  through  the  lattice-work  and  whirled 
downstream. 

Thereafter  the  stars  died  and  the  rain  came  down  afresh 
and  the  river  rose  yet  more,  and  I  felt  the  bridge  begin  to 
stir  under  me  as  a  man  stirs  in  his  sleep  ere  he  wakes. 
But  I  was  not  afraid,  sahib.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  was 
not  afraid,  though  I  had  no  power  in  my  limbs.  I  knew 
that  I  should  not  die  till  I  had  seen  her  once  more.  But 
I  was  very  cold,  and  I  felt  that  the  bridge  must  go. 

There  was  a  trembling  in  the  water,  such  a  trembling  as 
goes  before  the  coming  of  a  great  wave,  and  the  bridge 
lifted  its  flank  to  the  rush  of  that  coming  so  that  the  right 
lattice  dipped  under  water  and  the  left  rose  clear.  On  m.y 
beard,  sahib,  I  am  speaking  God's  truth!  As  a  Mirzapore 
stone-boat  careens  to  the  wind,  so  the  Barhwi  Bridge 
turned.     Just  this  and  in  no  other  manner. 

I  slid  from  the  boom  into  deep  water,  and  behind  me 
came  the  wave  of  wrath  of  the  river.  I  heard  its  voice 
and  the  scream  of  the  middle  part  of  the  bridge  as  it 


294  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

moved  from  the  piers  and  sunk,  and  I  knew  no  more  till 
I  rose  in  the  middle  of  the  great  flood.  I  put  forth  my 
hand  to  swim,  and  lo!  it  fell  upon  the  knotted  hair  of  the 
head  of  a  man.  He  was  dead,  for  no  one  but  I,  the  Strong 
One  of  Barhwi,  could  have  lived  in  that  race.  He  had 
been  dead  full  two  days,  for  he  rode  high,  wallowing,  and 
was  an  aid  to  me.  I  laughed  then,  knowing  for  a  surety 
that  I  should  yet  see  her  and  take  no  harm;  and  I  twisted 
my  fingers  in  the  hair  of  the  man,  for  I  was  far  spent, 
and  together  we  went  down  the  stream — lie  the  dead  and 
I  the  living.  Lacking  that  help  I  should  have  sunk;  the 
cold  was  in  my  marrow,  and  my  flesh  was  ribbed  and 
sodden  on  my  bones.  But  he  had  no  fear  who  had  known 
the  uttermost  of  the  power  of  the  river;  and  I  let  him  go 
where  he  chose.  At  last  we  came  into  the  power  of  a  side- 
current  that  set  to  the  right  bank^  and  I  strove  with  my 
feet  to  draw  with  it.  But  the  dead  man  swung  heavily  in 
the  whirl,  and  I  feared  that  some  branch  had  struck  him 
and  that  he  would  sink.  The  tops  of  the  tamarisk  brushed 
my  knees,  so  I  knew  we  were  come  into  flood-water  above 
the  crops,  and,  after,  I  let  down  my  legs  and  felt  bottom — 
the  ridge  of  a  field — and,  after,  the  dead  man  stayed  upon 
a  knoll  under  a  fig-tree,  and  I  drew  my  body  from  the 
water  rejoicing. 

Does  the  sahib  know  whither  the  back-wash  of  the  flood 
had  borne  me?  To  the  knoll  which  is  the  eastern  bound- 
ary mark  of  the  village  of  Pateera!  No  other  place.  I 
drew  the  dead  man  up  on  the  grass  for  the  service  that  he 
had  done  me,  and  also  because  I  knew  not  whether  I 
should  need  him  again.  Then  I  went,  crying  thrice  like  a 
jackal,  to  the  appointed  place  which  was  near  the  byre  of 
the  herdman's  house.  But  my  love  was  already  there, 
weeping  upon  her  knees.     She  feared  that  the  flood  had 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  295 

swept  my  hut  at  the  Barhwi  Ford.  When  I  came  softly 
through  the  ankle-deep  water,  she  thought  it  was  a  ghost 
and  would  have  fled,  but  1  put  my  arms  around  her,  and 
...  I  was  no  ghost  in  those  days,  though  I  am  an  old 
man  now.  Ho!  Ho!  Dried  corn,  in  truth.  Maize  with- 
out juice.     Ho!     Ho!* 

I  told  her  the  story  of  the  breaking  of  the  Barhwi 
Bridge,  and  she  said  that  I  was  greater  than  mortal  man, 
for  none  may  cross  the  Barhwi  in  full  flood,  and  I  had 
seen  what  never  man  had  seen  before.  Hand  in  hand 
we  went  to  the  knoll  where  the  dead  lay,  and  I  showed  her 
by  what  help  I  had  made  the  ford.  She  looked  also  upon 
the  body  under  the  stars,  for  the  latter  end  of  the  night 
was  clear,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  crying:  "It  is 
the  body  of  Hirnam  Singh!"  I  said:  "The  swine  is  of 
more  use  dead  than  living,  my  beloved,"  and  she  said: 
"Surely,  for  he  has  saved  the  dearest  life  in  the  world'to 
my  love.  None  the  less,  he  can  not  stay  here,  for  that 
would  bring  shame  upon  me."  The  body  was  not  a  gun- 
shot from  her  door. 

Then  said  I,  rolling  the  body  with  my  hands:  "God 
hath  judged  between  us,  Hirnam  Singh,  that  thy  blood 
might  not  be  upon  my  head.  Now,  whether  I  have  done 
thee  a  wrong  in  keeping  thee  fro^m  the  burning-ghat,  do 
thou  and  the  crows  settle  together."  So  I  cast  him  adrift 
into  the  flood-water,  and  he  was  drawn  out  to  the  open, 
ever  wagging  his  thick  black  beard  like  a  priest  under  the 
pulpit-board.     And  I  saw  no  more  of  Hirnam  Singh. 

Before  the  breaking  of  the  day  we  two  parted,  and  I 
moved  toward  such  of  the  jungle  as  was  not  flooded.  With 


*  I  grieve  to  say  that  the  Warden  of  the  Barhwi  Ford  is  re- 
sponsible here  for  two  very  bad  puns  in  the  vernacular. — R.  K. 


296  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

the  full  light  I  saw  what  I  had  done  in  the  darkness,  and 
the  bones  of  my  body  were  loosened  in  my  flesh,  for  there 
ran  two  kos  of  raging  water  between  the  village  of  Pateera 
and  the  trees  of  the  far  bank,  and,  in  the  middle,  the  piers 
of  the  Barhwi  Bridge  showed  like  broken  teeth  in  the  jaw 
of  an  old  man.  Nor  was  there  any  life  upon  the  waters — 
neither  birds  nor  boats,  but  only  an  army  of  drowned 
things — bullocks  and  horses  and  men — and  the  river  was 
redder  than  blood  from  the  clay  of  the  foot-hills.  Never 
had  I  seen  such  a  flood — never  since  that  year  have  I  seen 
the  like — and,  oh,  sahib,  no  man  living  had  done  what  I 
had  done.  There  was  no  return  for  me  that  day.  Not 
for  all  the  lands  of  the  headman  would  I  venture  a  second 
time  without  the  shield  of  darkness  that  cloaks  danger.  I 
went  a  kos  up  the  river  to  the  house  of  a  blacksmith,  say- 
ing that  the  flood  had  swept  me  from  my  hut,  and  they 
gave  me  food.  Seven  days  I  stayed  with  the  blacksmith, 
till  a  boat  came  and  I  returned  to  my  house.  There  was 
no  trace  of  wall,  or  roof,  or  floor — naught  but  a  patch  of 
slimy  mud.  Judge,  therefore,  sahib,  how  far  the  river 
must  have  risen.  It  was  written  that  I  should  not  die 
either  in  my  house,  or  in  the  heart  of  the  Barhwi,  or  under 
the  wreck  of  the  Barwhi  Bridge,  for  God  sent  down  Hir- 
nam  Sin^h  two  days  dead,  though  I  know  not  how  the 
man  died,  to  be  my  buoy  and  support.  Hirnam  Singh 
has  been  in  hell  these  twenty  years,  and  the  thought  of 
that  night  must  be  the  flower  of  his  torment. 

Listen,  sahib!  The  river  has  changed  its  voice.  It  is 
going  to  sleep  before  the  dawn,  to  which  there  is  yet  one 
hour.  With  the  light  it  will  come  down  afresh.  How  do 
I  know?  Have  I  been  here  thirty  years  without  knowing 
the  voice  of  the  river  as  a  father  knows  the  voice  of  his 
son?     Every  moment  it  is  talking  less  angrily.     I  swear 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  297 

that  there  will  be  no  danger  for  one  hour  or  perhaps,  two. 
I  can  not  answer  for  the  morning.  Be  quick,  sahib!  I 
will  call  Ram  Pershad,  and  he  will  not  turn  back  this  tinie. 
Is  the  paulin  tightly  corded  upon  all  the  baggage?  Ohe, 
mahout  with  a  mud  head,  the  elephant  for  the  sahib,  and 
tell  them  on  the  far  side  that  there  will  be  no  crossing  after 
daylight. 

Money?  Nay,  sahib.  I  am  not  of  that  kind.  No  not 
even  to  give  sweetmeats  to  the  baby-folk.  My  house,  look 
you,  is  empty,  and  I  am  an  old  man. 

Dutt,  Ram  Pershad!  Dutt!  Dutt!  Dutt!  Good  luck 
go  with  you,  sahib. 


298  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THE  SENDING  OF  DANA  DA. 

When  the  Devil  rides  on  your  chest  remember  the  chamar. 

— Native  Proverb. 

Once  upon  a  time,  some  people  in  India  made  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth  out  of  broken  tea-cups,  a  missing 
brooch  or  two,  and  a  liair-brush.  These  were  hidden 
under  bushes,  or  stufifed  into  holes  in  the  hill-side,  and  an 
entire  civil  service  of  subordinate  gods  used  to  find  or 
mend  them  again;  and  every  one  said:  "There  are  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in  our 
philosophy."  Several  other  things  happened  also,  but  the 
religion  never  seemed  to  get  much  beyond  its  first  mani- 
festations; though  it  added  an  air-line  postal  dak,  and  or- 
chestral effects  in  order  to  keep  abreast  of  the  times,  and 
stall  off  competition. 

This  religion  was  too  elastic  for  ordinary  use.  It 
stretched  itself  and  embraced  pieces  of  everything  that 
medicine-men  of  all  ages  have  manufactured.  It  ap- 
proved of  and  stole  from  Freemasonry ;  looted  the  Latter- 
day  Rosicrucians  of  half  their  pet  words;  took  any  frag- 
ments of  Egyptian  philosophy  that  it  found  in  the  En- 
cyclopaedia Britannica;  annexed  as  many  of  the  Vedas 
as  had  been  translated  into  French  or  English,  and  talked 
of  all  the  rest;  built  in  the  German  versions  of  what  is 
left  of  the  Zend  Avesta;  encouraged  white,  gray  and  black 
magic,  including  Spiritualism,  palmistry,  fortune-telling 
by  cards,  hot  chestnuts,  double-kerneled  nuts  and  tallow 
droppings;  and  would  have  adopted  Voodoo  and  Oboe 
had  it  known  anything  about  them,  and  showed  itself, 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


299 


in  every  way,  one  of  the  most  accommodating  arrange- 
ments that  had  ever  been  invented  since  the  birth  of  the 
sea. 

When  it  was  in  thorough  working  order,  with  all  the 
machinery  down  to  the  subscriptions  complete,  Dana  Da 
came  from  nowhere,  with  nothing  in  his  hands,  and  wrote 
a  chapter  in  its  history  which  has  hitherto  been  unpub- 
Hshed.  He  said  that  his  first  name  was  Dana,  and  his 
second  was  Da.  Now,  setting  aside  Dana  of  the  New 
York  "Sun,"  Dana  is  a  Bhil  name,  and  Da  fits  no  native 
of  India  unless  you  accept  the  Bengali  De  as  the  original 
spelling.  Da  is  Lap  or  Finnish;  and  Dana  Da  was  neither 
Finn,  Chin,  Bhil,  Bengali,  Lap,  Nair,  Gond,  Romaney, 
Magh,  Bokhariot,  Kurd,  Armenian,  Levantine,  Jew,  Per- 
sian, Punjalji,  Aladrasi,  Parsee,  nor  anything  else  known 
to  ethnologists.  He  was  simply  Dana  Da,  and  declined 
to  give  further  information.  For  the  sake  of  brevity,  and 
as  roughly  indicating  his  origin,  he  was  called  "The  Na- 
tive." He  might  have  been  the  original  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains,  who  is  said  to  be  the  only  authorized  head  of 
the  Tea-cup  Creed.  Some  people  said  that  he  was;  but 
Dana  Da  used  to  smile  and  deny  any  connection  with  the 
cult;  explaining  that  he  was  an  "independent  experi- 
menter." 

As  I  have  said,  he  came  from  nowhere,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  and  studied  the  creed  for  three  weeks; 
sitting  at  the  feet  of  those  best  competent  to  explain  its 
mysteries.  Then  he  laughed  aloud  and  went  away,  but 
the  laugh  might  have  been  either  of  devotion  or  derision. 

When  he  returned  he  was  without  money,  but  his  pride 
was  unabated.  He  declared  that  he  knew  more  about  the 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  those  who  taught  him, 
and  for  this  contumacy  was  abandoned  altogether. 


300  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

His  next  appearance  in  public  life  was  at  a  big  canton- 
ment in  Upper  India,  and  he  was  then  telling  fortunes 
with  the  help  of  three  leaden  dice,  a  very  dirty  old  cloth, 
and  a  little  tin  box  of  opium  pills.  He  told  better  for- 
tunes when  he  was  allowed  half  a  bottle  of  whisky;  but  the 
things  which  he  invented  on  the  opium  were  quite  worth 
the  money.  He  was  in  reduced  circumstances.  Among 
other  people's  he  told  the  fortune  of  an  Englishman 
who  had  once  been  interested  in  the  Simla  creed,  but  who, 
later  on,  had  married  and  forgotten  all  his  old  knowledge 
in  the  study  of  babies  and  Exchange.  The  Englishman 
allowed  Dana  Da  to  tell  a  fortune  for  charity's  sake,  and 
gave  him  five  rupees,  a  dinner,  and  some  old  clothes. 
When  he  had  eaten,  Dana  Da  professed  gratitude  and 
asked  if  there  was  anything  he  could  do  for  his  host — in 
the  esoteric  line. 

"Is  there  any  one  that  you  love?"  said  Dana  Da.  The 
Englishman  loved  his  wife,  but  had  no  desire  to  drag 
her  name  into  the  conversation.  He  therefore  shook  his 
head. 

"Is  there  any  one  that  you  hate?"  said  Dana  Da.  The 
Englishman  said  that  there  were  several  men  whom  he 
hated  deeply. 

"Very  good,"  said  Dana  Da,  upon  whom  the  whisky 
and  the  opium  were  beginning  to  tell.  "Only  give  me 
their  names,  and  I  will  dispatch  a  Sending  tQ  them  and 
kill  them." 

Now  a  Sending  is  a  horrible  arrangement,  first  invent- 
ed, they  say,  in  Iceland.  It  is  a  thing  sent  by  a  wizard, 
and  may  take  any  form,  but  most  generally  wanders  about 
the  land  in  the  shape  of  a  little  purple  cloud  till  it  finds  the 
sendee,  and  him  it  kills  by  changing  into  the  form  of  a 
horse,  or  a  cat,  or  a  man  without  a  face.     It  is  not  strictly 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  301 

a  native  patent,  though  chamars  can,  if  irritated,  dispatch 
a  Sending  which  sits  on  the  breast  of  their  enemy  by  night 
and  nearly  kills  him.  Very  few  natives  care  to  irritate 
chamars  for  this  reason. 

"Let  me  dispatch  a  Sending,"  said  Dana  Da,  "I  am 
nearly  dead  now  with  want,  and  drink,  and  opium;  but  I 
should  like  to  kill  a  man  before  I  die,  I  can  send  a  Send- 
ing anywhere  you  choose,  and  in  any  form  except  in  the 
shape  of  a  man." 

The  Englishman  had  no  friends  that  he  wished  to  kill, 
but  partly  to  soothe  Dana  Da,  whose  eyes  were  rolling, 
and  partly  to  see  what  would  be  done,  he  asked  whether 
a  modified  Sending  could  not  be  arranged  for — such  a 
Sending  as  should  make  a  man's  life  a  burden  to  him, 
and  yet  do  him  no  harm.  If  this  were  possible,  he  noti- 
fied his  willingness  to  give  Dana  Da  ten  rupees  for  the 
job. 

"I  am  not  what  I  was  once,"  said  Dana  Da,  "and  I 
must  take  the  money  because  I  am  poor.  To  what  Eng- 
lishman shall  I  send  it?" 

"Send  a  Sending  to  Lone  Sahib,"  said  the  Englishman, 
naming  a  man  who  had  been  most  bitter  in  rebuking  him 
for  his  apostasy  from  the  Tea-cup  Creed.  Dana  Da 
laughed  and  nodded. 

"I  could  have  chosen  no  better  man  myself,"  said  he. 
"I  will  see  that  he  finds  the  Sending  about  his  path  and 
about  his  bed." 

He  lay  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  turned  up  the  whites  of 
his  eyes,  shivered  all  over  and  began  to  snort.  This  was 
magic,  or  opium,  or  the  Sending,  or  all  three.  When  he 
opened  his  eyes  he  vowed  that  the  Sending  had  started 
upon  the  warpath,  and  was  at  that  moment  flying  up  to 
the  town  where  Lone  Sahib  lives. 


302  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

"Give  me  my  ten  rupees,"  said  Dana  Da  wearily,  "and 
write  a  letter  to  Lone  Sahib,  telling  him,  and  all  who  be- 
lieve with  him,  that  you  and  a  friend  are  using  a  power 
greater  than  theirs.  They  will  see  that  you  are  speaking 
the  truth." 

He  departed  unsteadily,  with  the  promise  of  some  more 
rupees  if  anything  came  of  the  Sending. 

The  Englishman  sent  a  letter  to  Lone  Sahib,  couched  in 
what  he  remembered  of  the  terminology  of  the  creed.  He 
wrote:  "I  also,  in  the  days  of  what  you  held  to  be  my 
backsliding,  have  obtained  enlightenment,  and  with  en- 
lightenment has  come  power."  Then  he  grew  so  deeply 
mysterious  that  the  recipient  of  the  letter  would  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  it,  and  was  proportionately  im- 
pressed; for  he  fancied  that  his  friend  had  become  a  "fifth- 
rounder."  When  a  man  is  a  "fifth-rounder"  he  can  do 
more  than  Slade  and  Houdin  combined. 

Lone  Sahib  read  the  letter  in  five  different  fashions,  and 
was  beginning  a  sixth  interpretation  when  his  bearer 
dashed  in  with  the  news  that  there  was  a  cat  on  the  bed. 
Now,  if  there  was  one  thing  that  Lone  Sahib  hated  more 
than  another,  it  was  a  cat.  He  rated  the  bearer  for  not 
turning  it  out  of  the  house.  The  bearer  said  that  he  was 
afraid.  All  the  doors  of  the  bedroom  had  been  shut 
throughout  the  morning,  and  no  real  cat  could  possibly 
have  entered  the  room.  He  would  prefer  not  to  meddle 
with  the  creature. 

Lone  Sahib  entered  the  room  gingerly,  and  there,  on 
the  pillow  of  his  bed,  sprawled  and  whimpered  a  wee  white 
kitten,  not  a  jumpsome,  frisky  little  beast,  but  a  slug-like 
crawler  with  his  eyes  barely  opened  and  its  paws  lacking 
strength  or  direction — a  kitten  that  ought  to  have  been 
in  a  basket  with  its  mamma.    Lone  Sahib  caught  it  by  the 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  303 

scruff  of  its  neck,  handed  it  over  to  the  sweeper  to  be 
drowned,  and  fined  the  bearer  four  annas. 

That  evening,  as  he  was  reading  in  his  room,  he  fancied 
that  he  saw  something  moving  about  on  the  hearth-rug, 
outside  the  circle  of  Hght  from  his  reading-lamp.  When 
the  thing  began  to  myowl,  he  realized  that  it  was  a  kitten 
— a  wee  white  kitten,  nearly  blind  and  very  miserable. 
He  was  seriously  angry,  and  spoke  bitterly  to  his  bearer, 
who  said  that  there  was  no  kitten  in  the  room  when  he 
brought  in  the  lamp,  and  real  kittens  of  tender  age  gen- 
erally had  mother-cats  in  attendance. 

"If  the  Presence  will  go  out  into  the  veranda  and  lis- 
ten," said  the  bearer,  "he  will  hear  no  cats.  How,  there- 
fore, can  the  kitten  on  the  bed  and  the  kitten  on  the 
hearth-rug  be  real  kittens?" 

Lone  Sahib  went  out  to  listen,  and  the  bearer  followed 
•him,  but  there  was  no  sound  of  Rachel  mewing  for  her 
children.  He  returned  to  his  room,  having  hurled  the 
kitten  down  the  hill-side,  and  wrote  out  the  incidents  of 
the  day  for  the  benefit  of  his  coreligionists.  Those  peo- 
ple were  so  absolutely  free  from  superstition  that  they 
ascribed  anything  a  little  out  of  the  common  to  agencies. 
As  it  was  their  business  to  know  all  about  the  agencies, 
they  were  on  terms  of  almost  indecent  familiarity  with 
manifestations  of  every  kind.  Their  letters  dropped  from 
the  ceiling — unstamped — and  spirits  used  to  squatter  up 
and  down  their  staircases  all  night.  But  they  had  never 
come  into  contact  with  kittens.  Lone  Sahib  wrote  out  the 
facts,  noting  the  hour  and  minute,  as  every  psychical  ob- 
server is  bound  to  do,  and  appending  the  Englishman's 
letter  because  it  was  the  most  mysterious  document  and 
might  have  had  a  bearing  upon  anything  in  this  world 
or  the  next.     An  outsider  would  have  translated  all  the 


304  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

tangle  thus:  "Look  out!  You  laughed  at  me  once,  and 
now  I  am  going  to  make  you  sit  up." 

Lone  Sahib's  coreligionists  found  that  meaning  in  it; 
but  their  translation  was  refined  and  full  of  four  syllable 
words.  They  held  a  sederunt,  and  were  filled  with  tremu- 
lous joy,  for,  in  spite  of  their  familiarity  with  all  the  other 
worlds  and  cycles,  they  had  a  very  human  awe  of  things 
sent  from  ghost-land.  They  met  in  Lone  Sahib's  room  in 
shrouded  and  sepulchral  gloom,  and  their  conclave  was 
broken  up  by  a  clinking  among  the  photo-frames  on  the 
mantel-piece.  A  wee  white  kitten,  nearly  blind,  was  loop- 
ing and  writhing  itself  between  the  clock  and  the  candle- 
sticks. That  stopped  all  investigations  or  doubtings. 
Here  was  the  manifestation  in  the  flesh.  It  was,  so  far  as 
could  be  seen,  devoid  of  purpose,  but  it  was  a  manifesta- 
tion of  undoubted  authenticity. 

They  drafted  a  round  robin  to  the  Englishman,  the 
backslider  of  old  days,  adjuring  him  in  the  interests  of  the 
creed  to  explain  whether  there  was  any  connection  be- 
tween the  embodiment  of  some  Egyptian  god  or  other  (I 
have  forgotten  the  name)  and  his  communication.  They 
called  the  kitten  Ra,  or  Toth,  or  Shem,  or  Noah,  or  some- 
thing; and  when  Lone  Sahib  confessed  that  the  first  one 
had,  at  his  most  misguided  instance,  been  drowned  by  the 
sweeper,  they  said  consolingly  that  in  his  next  life  he 
would  be  a  "bounder,"  and  not  even  a  "rounder"  of  the 
lowest  grade.  These  words  may  not  be  quite  correct,  but 
they  express  the  sense  of  the  house  accurately. 

When  the  Englishman  received  the  round  robin — it 
came  by  post — he  was  startled  and  bewildered.  He  sent 
into  the  bazaar  for  Dana  Da,  who  read  the  letter  and 
laughed.  "That  is  my  Sending,"  said  he.  "I  told  you  I 
would  work  well.     Now  give  me  another  ten  rupees." 


PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS.  305 

'"But  what  in  the  world  is  this  gibberish  about  Egyp- 
tian gods?"  asked  the  Enghshman. 

"Cats,"  said  Dana  Da,  with  a  hiccough,  for  he  had  dis- 
covered the  Enghshman's  whisky  bottle.  "Cats  and  cats 
and  cats!  Never  was  such  a  Sending.  A  hundred  of 
cats.  Now  give  me  ten  more  rupees  and  write  as  I  dic- 
tate." 

Dana  Da's  letter  was  a  curiosity.  It  bore  the  English- 
man's signature,  and  hinted  at  cats — at  a  Sending  of  cats. 
The  mere  words  on  paper  were  creepy  and  uncanny  to  be- 
hold. 

"What  have  you  done,  though?"  said  the  Englishman; 
"I  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  can  actually  send  this  absurd  Sending  you  talk 
about?" 

"Judge  for  yourself,"  said  Dana  Da,  "What  does  that 
letter  mean?  In  a  little  time  they  will  all  be  at  my  feet 
and  yours,  and  I,  oh,  glory!  will  be  drugged  or  drunk  all 
day  long." 

Dana  Da  knew  his  people. 

When  a  man  who  hates  cats  wakes  up  in  the  morning 
and  finds  a  little  squirming  kitten  on  his  breast,  or  puts 
his  hand  into  his  ulster-pocket  and  finds  a  little  half-dead 
kitten  where  his  gloves  should  be,  or  opens  his  trunk  and 
finds  a  vile  kitten  among  his  dress-shirts,  or  goes  for  a 
long  ride  with  his  mackintosh  strapped  on  his  saddle-bow 
and  shakes  a  little  squawling  kitten  from  its  folds  when  he 
opens  it,  or  goes  out  to  dinner  and  finds  a  little  blind  kit- 
ten under  his  chair,  or  stays  at  home  and  finds  a  writhing 
kitten  under  the  quilt,  or  wriggling  among  his  boots,  or 
hanging,  head  downward,  in  his  tobacco-jar,  or  being 
mangled  by  his  terrier  in  the  veranda — when  such  a  man 
finds  one  kitten,  neither  more  nor  less,  once  a  dav  in  a 
20 


3o6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

place  where  no  kitten  rightly  covilcl  or  should  be,  he  is 
naturally  upset.  When  he  dare  not  murder  his  daily  trove 
because  he  believes  it  to  be  a  manifestation,  an  emissary, 
an  embodiment,  and  half  a  dozen  other  things  all  out  of 
the  regular  course  of  nature,  he  is  more  than  upset.  He 
is  actually  distressed.  Some  of  Lone  Sahib's  coreligion- 
ists thought  that  he  v^as  a  highly  favored  individual;  but 
many  said  that  if  he  had  treated  the  first  kitten  with  proper 
respect — as  suited  a  Toth-Ra-Tum-Sennacherib  Embodi- 
ment— all  this  trouble  would  have  been  averted.  They 
compared  him  to  the  Ancient  Mariner,  but  none  the  less 
they  were  proud  of  him  and  proud  of  the  Englishman 
who  had  sent  the  manifestation.  They  did  not  call  it  a 
Sending  because  Icelandic  magic  was  not  in  their  pro- 
gram. 

After  sixteen  kittens — that  is  to  say,  after  one  fortnight, 
for  there  were  three  kittens  on  the  first  day  to  impress  the 
fact  of  the  Sending,  the  whole  camp  was  uplifted  by  a  let- 
ter— it  came  flying  through  a  window — from  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Mountains — the  head  of  all  the  creed — explaining 
the  manifestation  in  the  most  beautiful  language  and 
soaking  up  all  the  credit  of  it  for  himself.  The  English- 
man, said  the  letter,  was  not  there  at  all.  He  was  a  back- 
slider without  power  or  asceticism,  who  couldn't  even 
raise  a  table  by  force  of  volition,  much  less  project  an 
army  of  kittens  through  space.  The  entire  arrangement, 
said  the  letter,  was  strictly  orthodox,  worked  and  sanc- 
tioned by  the  highest  authorities  within  the  pale  of  the 
creed.  There  was  great  joy  at  this,  for  some  of  the  weak- 
er brethren  seeing  that  an  outsider  who  had  been  working 
on  independent  lines  could  create  kittens,  whereas  their 
own  rulers  had  never  gone  beyond  crockery — and  broken 
at  that — were  showing  a  desire  to  break  line  on  their  own 
trail.    In  fact,  there  was  the  promise  of  a  schism.    A  sec- 


PLAIN  TALES   P^ROM   THE   HILLS.  307 

ond  round  robin  was  drafted  to  the  Englishman,  begin- 
ning: "Oh,  Scoffer,"  and  ending  with  a  selection  of 
curses  from  the  rites  of  Mizraim  and  Memphis  and  the 
Commination  of  Jugana  who  was  a  ''fifth-rounder,"  upon 
whose  name  an  upstart  "third-rounder"  once  traded.  A 
papal  excommunication  is  a  billet-doux  compared  to  the 
Commination  of  Jugana.  The  Englishman  had  been 
proved  under  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains  to  have  appropriated  virtue  and  pretended 
to  have  power  which,  in  reality,  belonged  only  to  the  su- 
preme head.  Naturally  the  round  robin  did  not  spare 
him. 

He  handed  the  letter  to  Dana  Da  to  translate  into  de- 
cent English.  The  effect  on  Dana  Da  was  curious.  At 
first  he  was  furiously  angry,  and  then  he  laughed  for  five 
minutes. 

'T  had  thought,"  he  said,  "that  they  would  have  come 
to  me.  In  another  week  I  would  have  shown  that  I  sent 
the  Sending,  and  they  would  have  discrowned  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountains  who  has  sent  this  Sending  of  mine. 
Do  you  do  nothing?  The  time  has  come  for  me  to  act. 
Write  as  I  dictate,  and  I  will  put  them  to  shame.  But 
give  me  ten  more  rupees." 

At  Dana  Da's  dictation  the  Englishman  wrote  nothing 
less  than  a  formal  challenge  to  the  Old  ^lan  of  tlic  Moun- 
tains. It  wound  up:  "And  if  this  manifestation  be  from 
your  hand,  then  let  it  go  forward;  but  if  it  be  from  my 
hand,  I  will  that  the  Sending  shall  cease  in  two  days' 
time.  .  On  that  day  there  shall  be  twelve  kittens  and 
thenceforward  none  at  all.  The  people  shall  judge  be- 
tween us."  This  was  signed  by  Dana  Da,  who  added 
])entacles  and  pentagrams,  and  a  crux  ansata,  and  half 
a  dozen  swastikas,  and  a  Triple  Tau  to  his  name,  just  lo 
show  that  he  was  all  he  laid  claim  to  be. 


3o8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

The  challenge  was  read  out  to  the  gentlemen  and 
ladies,  and  they  remembered  then  that  Dana  Da  had 
laughed  at  them  some  years  ago.  It  was  officially  an- 
nounced that  the  Old  ]N'Ian  of  the  Mountains  would  treat 
the  matter  with  contempt;  Dana  Da  being  an  independent 
investigator  without  a  single  "round"  at  the  back  of  him. 
But  this  did  not  soothe  his  people.  They  wanted  to  see  a 
fight.  They  were  very  human  for  all  their  spirituality. 
Lone  Sahib,  who  was  really  being  worn  out  with  kittens, 
submitted  meekly  to  his  fate.  He  felt  that  he  was  being 
"kittened  to  prove  the  power  of  Dana  Da,"  as  the  poet 
says. 

When  the  stated  day  dawned,  the  shower  of  kittens  be- 
gan. Some  were  white  and  some  were  tabby,  and  all 
were  about  the  same  loathsome  age.  Three  were  on  his 
hearth-rug,  three  in  his  bath-room,  and  the  other  six 
turned  up  at  intervals  among  the  visitors  who  canie 
to  see  the  prophecy  break  down.  Never  was  a  more  satis- 
factory Sending.  On  the  next  day  there  were  no  kittens, 
and  the  next  day  and  all  the  other  days  were  kittenless 
and  quiet.  The  people  murmured  and  looked  to  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountains  for  an  explanation.  A  letter,  writ- 
ten on  a  palm-leaf,  dropped  from  the  ceiling,  but  every 
one  except  Lone  Sahib  felt  that  letters  were  not  what  the 
occasion  demanded.  There  should  have  been  cats,  there 
should  have  been  cats  —  full-grown  ones.  The  letter 
proved  conclusively  that  there  had  been  a  hitch  in  the 
psychic  current  which,  colliding  with  a  dual  identity, 
had  interfered  with  the  percipient  activity  all  along  the 
main  line.  The  kittens  were  still  going  on,  but  owing  to 
some  failure  in  the  developing  fluid,  they  were  not  mater- 
ialized. The  air  was  thick  with  letters  for  a  few  days  after- 
ward.    Unseen  hands  played  Gliick  and  Beethoven  on 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  309 

finger-bowls  and  clock-shades;  but  all  men  felt  that 
psychic  life  was  a  mockery  without  materialized  kittens. 
Even  Lone  Sahib  shouted  with  the  majority  on  this  head. 
Dana  Da's  letters  were  very  insulting,  and  if  he  had  then 
offered  to  lead  a  new  departure,  there  is  no  knowing  what 
might  not  have  happened. 

But  Dana  Da  was  dying  of  whisky  and  opium  in  the 
Englishman's  godown,  and  had  small  heart  for  new 
creeds. 

"They  have  been  put  to  shame,"  said  he.  "Never  was 
such  a  Sending.    It  has  killed  me." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Englishman,  "you  are  going  to 
die,  Dana  Da,  and  that  sort  of  stufif  must  be  left  behind. 
I'll  admit  that  you  have  made  some  queer  things  come 
about.    Tell  me  honestly,  now,  how  was  it  done?" 

"Give  me  ten  more  rupees,"  said  Dana  Da,  faintly, 
"and  if  I  die  before  I  spend  them,  bury  them  with  me." 
The  silver  was  counted  out  while  Dana  Da  was  fightini-; 
with  death.  His  hand  closed  upon  the  money  and  he 
smiled  a  grim  smile. 

"Bend  low,"  he  whispered.    The  Englishman  bent. 

"Bunnia — mission-school — expelled — box-wallah  (ped- 
dler)— Ceylon  pearl-merchant — all  mine  English  educa- 
tion— outcasted,  and  made  up  name  Dana  Da — England 
with  American  thought-reading  man  and — and — you 
gave  me  ten  rupees  several  times — I  gave  the  Sahib's 
bearer  two-eight  a  month  for  cats — little,  little  cats.  I 
wrote,  and  he  put  them  about — very  clever  man.  Very 
few  kittens  now  in  the  bazaar.  Ask  Lone  Sahib's  sweep- 
er's wife." 

So  saying,  Dana  Da  gasped  and  passed  away  into  a 
where,  if  all  be  true,  there  are  no  materializations  and  the 
making  of  new  creeds  is  discouraged. 

But  consider  the  gorgeous  simplicity  of  it  all! 


3IO  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


ON  THE  CITY  WALL. 

Then  she  let  them  clown  by  a  cord  through  the  window; 
for  her  house  was  upon  the  town  wall,  and  she  dwelt  upon  the 
wall.  — Joshua  11.  15. 

Laltin  is  a  member  of  the  most  ancient  profession  in 
the  world.  LiHth  was  her  very-great-grandmamma,  and 
that  was  before  the  days  of  Eve  as  every  one  knows.  In 
the  West,  people  say  rude  things  about  Lalun's  profes- 
sion, and  write  lectures  about  it,  and  distribute  the  lec- 
tures to  young  persons  in  order  that  morality  may  be  pre- 
served. In  the  East,  where  the  profession  is  hereditary, 
descending  from  mother  to  daughter,  nobody  writes 
lectures  or  takes  any  notice,  and  that  is  a  distinct  proof 
of  the  inability  of  the  East  to  manage  its  own  affairs. 

Lalun's  real  husband,  for  even  ladies  of  Lalun's  profes- 
sion in  the  East  must  have  husbands,  was  a  great,  big  ju- 
jube-tree. Her  mamma,  who  had  married  a  fig,  spent 
ten  thousand  rupees  on  Lalun's  wedding,  which  was 
blessed  by  forty-seven  clergymen  of  mamma's  church, 
and  distributed  five  thousand  rupees  in  charity  to  the 
poor.  And  that  was  the  custom  of  the  land.  The  ad- 
vantages of  having  a  ju-jube-tree  for  a  husband  are  ob- 
vious. You  can  not  hurt  his  feelings,  and  he  looks  im- 
posing. 

Lalun's  husband  stood  on  the  plain  outside  the  city 
walls,  and  Lalun's  house  was  upon  the  east  wall  facing 
the  river.  If  you  fell  from  the  broad  window-seat  you 
dropped  thirty  feet  sheer  into  the  city  ditch.  But  if  you 
stayed  where  you  should  and  looked  forth,  you  saw  all 
the  cattle  of  the  city  being  driven  down  to  water,  the  stu- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  311 

dents  of  the  government  college  playing  cricket,  the  high 
grass  and  trees  that  fringed  the  river-bank,  the  great  sand- 
bars that  ribbed  the  river,  the  red  tombs  of  dead  emperors 
beyond  the  river,  and  very  far  away  through  the  blue 
heat-haze,  a  glint  of  the  snows  of  the  Himalayas. 

Wali  Dad  used  to  lie  in  the  window-seat  for  hours  at  a 
time  watching  this  view.  He  was  a  young  Mohammedan 
who  was  suffering  acutely  from  education  of  the  English 
variety  and  knew  it.  His  father  had  sent  him  to  a  mis- 
sion-school to  get  wisdom,  and  Wali  Dad  had  absorbed 
more  than  ever  his  father  or  the  missionaries  intended  he 
should.  When  his  father  died,  Wali  Dad  was  independent 
and  spent  two  years  experimenting  with  the  creeds  of  the 
earth  and  reading  books  that  are  of  no  use  to  anybody. 

After  he  had  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  enter  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  and  the  Presbyterian  fold  at  the 
same  time  (the  missionaries  found  him  out  and  called  him 
names,  but  they  didn't  understand  his  trouble),  he  discov- 
ered Lalun  on  the  city  wall  and  became  the  most  constant 
of  her  few  admirers.  He  possessed  a  head  that  English 
artists  at  home  would  rave  over  and  paint  amid  impossible 
surroundings — a  face  that  female  novelists  would  use 
with  delight  through  nine  hundred  pages.  In  reality  he 
was  only  a  clean-bred  young  Mohammedan,  with  pen- 
ciled eye-brows,  small-cut  nostrils,  little  feet  and  hands, 
and  a  very  tired  look  in  his  eyes.  By  virtue  of  his  twenty- 
two  years  he  had  grown  a  neat  black  beard  which  he 
stroked  with  pride  and  kept  delicately  scented.  His  life 
seemed  to  be  divided  between  borrowing  books  from  me 
and  making  love  to  Lalun  in  the  window-seat.  He  com- 
posed songs  about  her,  and  some  of  the  songs  are  sung 
to  this  day  in  the  city  from  the  street  of  the  mutton-butch- 
ers to  the  copper-smiths'  ward. 


312  PLAIN  TALES  PROM  THE  HILLS. 

One  song,  the  prettiest  of  all,  says  that  the  beauty  of 
Lalun  was  so  great  that  it  troubled  the  hearts  of  the 
British  government  and  caused  them  to  lose  their  peace 
of  mind.  That  is  the  way  the  song  is  sung  in  the  streets; 
but,  if  you  examine  it  carefully  and  know  the  key  to  the 
explanation,  you  will  find  that  there  are  three  puns  in  it — 
on  "beauty,"  "heart,"  and  "peace  of  mind" — so  that  it 
runs:  "By  the  subtlety  of  Lalun  the  administration  of 
the  government  was  troubled  and  it  lost  such  and  such  a 
man."  When  Wali  Dad  sings  that  song  his  eyes  glow  like 
hot  coals  and  Lalun  leans  back  among  the  cushions  and 
throws  bunches  of  jasmine  buds  at  Wali  Dad. 

But  first  it  is  necessary  to  explain  something  about  the 
supreme  government  which  is  above  all  and  below  all  and 
behind  all.  Gentlemen  come  from  England,  spend  a  few 
weeks  in  India,  walk  round  this  great  Sphinx  of  the 
Plains,  and  write  books  upon  its  ways  and  its  works,  de- 
nouncing or  praising  it  as  their  own  ignorance  prompts. 
Consequently  all  the  world  knows  how  the  supreme  gov- 
ernment conducts  itself.  But  no  one,  not  even  the  su- 
preme government,  knows  everything  about  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  empire.  Year  by  year  England  sends  out 
fresh  drafts  for  the  first  fighting-line,  which  is  officially 
called  the  Indian  Civil  Service.  These  die,  or  kill  them- 
selves by  overwork,  or  are  worried  to  death  or  broken 
in  health  and  hope  in  order  that  the  land  may  be  pro- 
tected from  death  and  sickness,  famine  and  war,  and  may 
eventually  become  capable  of  standing  alone.  It  will 
never  stand  alone,  but  the  idea  is  a  pretty  one,  and  men 
are  willing  to  die  for  it,  and  yearly  the  work  of  pushing 
and  coaxing  and  scolding  and  petting  the  country  into 
good  living  goes  forward.  If  an  advance  be  made  all 
credit  is  given  to  the  native,  while  the  Englishmen  stand 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  313 

back  and  wipe  their  foreheads.  If  a  faihire  occurs  the 
EngHshmen  step  forward  and  take  the  blame.  Overmuch 
tenderness  of  this  kind  has  bred  a  strong-  beUef  among 
many  natives  that  the  native  is  capable  of  administering 
the  country,  and  many  devout  Englishmen  believe  this 
also,  because  the  theory  is  stated  in  beautiful  English  with 
all  the  latest  political  garnish. 

There  be  other  men  who,  though  uneducated,  see  vis- 
ions and  dream  dreams,  and  they,  too,  hope  to  administer 
the  country  in  their  own  way — that  is  to  say,  with  a  garn- 
ish of  red  sauce.  Such  men  must  exist  among  two  hun- 
dred million  people,  and,  if  they  are  not  attended  to,  may 
cause  trouble  and  even  break  the  great  idol  called  "Pax 
Britannic,"  W'hich,  as  the  newspapers  say,  lives  between 
Peshawur  and  Cape  Comorin.  Were  the  day  of  doom 
to  dawn  to-morrow,  you  would  find  the  supreme  g-overn- 
ment  "taking  measures  to  allay  popular  excitement"  and 
putting  guards  upon  the  grave-yards  that  the  dead  might 
troop  forth  orderly.  The  youngest  civilian  would  arrest 
Gabriel  on  his  own  responsibility  if  the  archangel  could 
not  produce  a  deputy  commissioner's  permission  to 
"make  music  or  other  noises,"  as  the  form  says. 

Whence  it  is  easy  to  see  that  mere  men  of  the  flesh  who 
would  create  a  tumult  must  fare  badly  at  the  hands  of 
the  supreme  government.  And  they  do.  There  is  no 
outward  sign  of  excitement ;  there  is  no  confusion ;  there 
is  no  knowledge.  When  due  and  sufBcient  reasons  have 
been  given,  weighed  and  approved,  the  machinery  moves 
forward,  and  the  dreamer  of  dreams  and  the  seer  of  visions 
is  gone  from  his  friends  and  following.  He  enjoys  the 
hospitality  of  government;  there  is  no  restriction  upon 
his  movements  within  certain  limits ;  but  he  must  not  con- 
fer any  more  with  his  brother  dreamers.     Once  in  every 


%'"l  -  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

six  months  the  supreme  government  assures  itself  that  he 
is  well  and  takes  formal  acknowledgment  of  his  existence. 
No  one  protests  against  his  detention,  because  the  few 
people  who  know  about  it  are  in  deadly  fear  of  seeming  to 
knov  him;  and  never  a  single  newspaper  "takes  up  his 
case"  or  organizes  demonstrations  on  his  behalf,  because 
the  newspapers  of  India  have  got  behind  that  lying  prov- 
erb which  says  the  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword,  and 
can  walk  delicately  and  with  circumspection. 

So  now  you  know  as  much  as  you  ought  about  Wali 
Dad,  the  educational  mixture,  and  the  supreme  govern- 
ment. 

Lalun  has  not  yet  been  described.  She  would  need,  so 
Wali  Dad  says,  a  thousand  pens  of  gold  and  ink  scented 
with  musk.  She  has  been  variously  compared  to  the 
moon,  the  Dil  Sagar  Lake,  a  spcrtted  quail,  a  gazelle,  the 
sun  on  the  Desert  of  Kutch,  the  dawn,  the  stars,  and  the 
young  bamboo.  These  comparisons  imply  that  she  is 
beautiful  exceedingly  according  to  the  native  standards, 
which  are  practically  the  same  as  those  of  the  West.  Her 
eyes  are  black  and  her  hair  is  black,  and  her  eyebrows  are 
black  as  leeches;  her  mouth  is  tiny  and  says  witty  things; 
her  hands  are  tiny  and  have  saved  much  money;  her  feet 
are  tiny  and  have  trodden  on  the  naked  hearts  of  many 
men.  But,  as  WaH  Dad  sings:  "Lalun  is  Lalun,  and 
when  you  have  said  that,  you  have  only  come  to  the  be- 
ginnings of  knowledge." 

The  little  house  on  the  city  wall  was  just  big  enough  to 
hold  Lalun,  and  her  maid,  and  a  pussy-cat  with  a  silver 
collar.  A  big  pink  and  blue  cut-glass  chandelier  hung 
from  the  ceiling  of  the  reception-room.  A  petty  Nawab 
had  given  Lalun  the  horror,  and  she  kept  it  for  politeness' 
sake.     The  floor  of  the  room  was  of  polished  chunam, 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  315 

white  as  ciirds.  A  latticed  window  of  carved  wood  was 
set  in  one  wall;  there  was  a  profusion  of  squabby  pluffy 
cushions  and  fat  carpets  everywhere,  and  Lalun's  silver 
huqa,  studded  with  turquoises,  had  a  special  little  carpet 
all  to  its  shining  self.  Wali  Dad  was  nearly  as  permanent 
a  fixture  as  the  chandelier.  As  I  have  said,  he  lay  in  the 
window-seat  and  meditated  on  life  and  death  and  Lalun — 
'specially  Lalun.  The  feet  of  the  young  men  of  the  city 
tended  to  her  door-ways  and  then — retired,  for  Lalun  was 
a  particular  maiden,  slow  of  speech,  reserved  of  mind,  and 
not  in  the  least  inclined  to  orgies  which  were  nearly  cer- 
tain to  end  in  strife.  "If  I  am  of  no  value,  I  am  unworthy 
of  this  honor,"  said  Lalun.  "If  I  am  of  value,  they  are 
unworthy  of  me."     And  that  was  a  crooked  sentence. 

In  the  long  hot  nights  of  latter  April  and  May  all  the 
city  seemed  to  assemble  in  Lalun's  little  white  room  to 
smoke  and  to  talk.  Shiahs  of  the  grimmest  and  most  un- 
compromising persuasion ;  Sufis  who  had  lost  all  belief  in 
the  Prophet  and  retained  but  little  in  God;  wandering 
Hindoo  priests  passing  southward  on  their  way  to  the 
Central  India  fairs  and  other  affairs;  pundits  in  black 
gowns,  with  spectacles  on  their  noses  and  undigested 
wisdom  in  their  insides;  bearded  headmen  of  the  wards; 
Sikhs  with  all  the  details  of  the  latest  ecclesiastical  scan- 
dal in  the  Golden  Temple;  red-eyed  priests  from  beyond 
the  border,  looking  like  trapped  wolves  and  talking  like 
ravens;  M.  A.'s  of  the  university,  very  superior  and  very 
voluble — all  these  people  and  more  also  you  might  find  in 
the  white  room.  Wali  Dad  lay  in  the  window-seat  and 
listened  to  the  talk. 

"It  is  Lalun's  salon,"  said  Wali  Dad  to  me,  "and  it  is 
electric — is  not  that  the  word?  Outside  of  a  Freemason's 
lodge  I  have  never  seen  such  gatherings.  There  I  dined 
once  with  a  Jew — a  Yahoudi!"     He  spat  into  the  city 


3l6  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

ditch  with  apologies  for  allowing  national  feelings  to  over- 
come him.  "Though  I  have  lost  every  belief  in  the 
world,"  said  he,  "and  try  to  be  proud  of  my  losing,  I  can 
not  help  hating  a  Jew.     Lalun  admits  no  Jews  here." 

"But  what  in  the  world  do  all  these  men  do?"  I  asked. 

"The  curse  of  the  country,"  said  Wall  Dad.  "They 
talk.  It  is  like  the  Athenians — always  hearing  and  tell- 
ing some  new  thing.  Ask  the  Pearl  and  she  will  show 
you  how  much  she  knows  of  the  news  of  the  city  and 
the  province.     Lalun  knows  everything." 

"Lalun,"  I  said  at  random — she  was  talking  to  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  Kurd  persuasion  who  had  come  in  from 
God  knows  where — "when  does  the  175th  Regiment  go 
to  Agra?" 

"It  does  not  go  at  all,"  said  Lalun,  without  turning 
her  head.  "They  have  ordered  the  ii8th  to  go  in  its 
stead.  That  regiment  goes  to  Lucknow  in  three  months, 
unless  they  give  a  fresh  order." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Wali  Dad,  without  a  shade  of  doubt. 
"Can  you,  with  your  telegrams  and  your  newspapers, 
do  better?  Always  hearing  and  telling  some  new  thing," 
he  went  on.  "My  friend,  has  your  God  ever  smitten  a 
European  nation  for  gossiping  in  the  bazaars?  India  has 
gossiped  for  centuries — always  standing  in  the  bazaars 
until  the  soldiers  go  by.  Therefore  .  .  .  you  are  here 
to-day  instead  of  starving  in  your  own  country,  and  I  am 
not  a  Mohammedan — I  am  a  product — a  'demnition' 
product.  That  also  I  owe  to  you  and  yours ;  that  I  can  not 
make  an  end  to  any  sentence  without  quoting  from  your 
authors."  He  pulled  at  the  huqa  and  mourned,  half  feel- 
ingly, half  in  earnest,  for  the  shattered  hopes  of  his  youth. 
Wali  Dad  was  always  mourning  over  something  or  other 
— the  country  of  which  he  despaired,  or  the  creed  in  which 
he  had  lost  faith,  or  the  life  of  the  English  which  he  could 
by  no  means  understand. 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  317 

Lalun  never  mourned.  She  played  little  songs  on  the 
sitar,  and  to  hear  her  sing,  "Oh,  Peacock,  Cry  Again," 
was  ahvays  a  fresh  pleasure.  She  knew  all  the  songs  that 
have  ever  been  sung,  from  the  war-songs  of  the  south  that 
make  the  old  men  angry  with  the  young  men  and  the 
young  men  angry  with  the  state,  to  the  love  songs  of  the 
north  where  the  swords  whinny-whicker  like  angry  kites 
in  the  pauses  between  the  kisses,  and  the  passes  fill  with 
armed  men,  and  the  lover  is  torn  from  his  beloved  and 
cries  Ai!  Ai!  Ai!  evermore.  She  knew  how  to  make  up 
tobacco  for  the  huqa  so  that  it  smelled  like  the  gates  of 
paradise  and  wafted  you  gently  through  them.  She 
could  embroider  strange  things  in  gold  and  silver,  and 
dance  softly  with  the  moonlight  when  it  came  in  at  the 
window.  Also  she  knew  the  hearts  of  men,  and  the  heart 
of  the  city,  and  whose  wives  were  faithful  and  whose  un- 
true, and  more  of  the  secrets  of  the  government  offices 
than  are  good  to  be  set  down  in  this  place.  Nasiban,  her 
maid,  said  that  her  jewelry  was  worth  ten  thousand 
pounds,  and  that,  some  night,  a  thief  would  enter  and 
murder  her  for  its  possession;  but  Lalun  said  that  all  the 
city  would  tear  that  thief  limb  from  limb,  and  that  he, 
whoever  he  was,  knew  it. 

So  she  took  her  sitar  and  sat  in  the  window-seat  and 
sung  a  song  of  old  days  that  had  been  sung  by  a  girl  of 
her  profession  in  an  armed  camp  on  the  eve  of  a  great  bat- 
tle— the  day  before  the  fords  of  the  Jumna  ran  red  and 
Sivaji  fled  fifty  miles  to  Delhi  with  a  Toorkh  stallion  at 
his  horse's  tail  and  another  Lalun  on  his  saddle-bow.  It 
was  what  men  call  a  ]\Iahratta  laonee,  and  it  said: 

Their  warrior  forces  Chimnajee 

Before  the  Peishwa  led, 
The  Children  of  the  Sun  and  Fire 

Behind  him  turned  and  fled. 


3l8  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

And  the  chorus  said : 

With  them  there  fought  who  rides  so  free 

With  sword  and  turban  red. 
The  warrior-youth  who  earns  his  fee 

At  peril  of  his  head. 

"At  peril  of  his  head,"  said  WaH  Dad  in  EngHsh  to 
me.  "Thanks  to  your  government,  all  our  heads  are  pro- 
tected, and  with  the  educational  facilities  at  my  com- 
mand"—his  eyes  twinkled  wickedly — "I  might  be  a  dis- 
tinguished member  of  the  local  administration.  Perhaps, 
in  time,  I  might  even  be  a  member  of  a  legislative  coun- 
cil." 

"Don't  speak  English,"  said  Lalun,  bending  over  her 
sitar  afresh.  The  chorus  went  out  from  the  city  wall  to 
•the  blackened  wall  of  Fort  Amara  which  dominates  the 
city.  No  man  knows  the  precise  extent  of  Fort  Amara. 
Three  kings  built  it  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  they  say 
that  there  are  miles  of  underground  rooms  beneath  its 
walls.  It  is  peopled  with  many  ghosts,  a  detachment  of 
garrison  artillery  and  a  company  of  infantry.  In  its 
prime  it  held  ten  thousand  men  and  filled  its  ditches  with 
corpses. 

"At  peril  of  his  head,"  sung  Lalun  again  and  again. 

A  head  moved  on  one  of  the  ramparts — the  gray  head 
of  an  old  man — and  a  voice,  rough  as  shark-skin  on  a 
sword-hilt,  sent  back  the  last  line  of  the  chorus  and  broke 
into  a  song  that  I  could  not  understand,  though  Lalun 
and  Wali  Dad  listened  intently. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked.     "Who  is  it?" 

"A  consistent  man,"  said  Wali  Dad.  "He  fought  you 
in  '46,  when  he  was  a  warrior-youth ;  refought  you  in  '57, 
and  he  tried  to  fight  you  in  '71,  but  you  had  learned  the 


PLAIN   TALES  FROM  THE   HILLS.  319 

trick  of  blowing  men  from  guns  too  well.  Xow  he  is  old ; 
but  he  would  still  fight  if  he  could." 

"Is  he  a  Wahabi,  then?  Why  should  he  answer  to  ;i 
Mahratta  laonee  if  he  be  Wahabi — or  Sikh?"  said  I. 

''I  do  not  know,"  said  Wali  Dad.  "He  has  lost,  per- 
haps, his  religion.  Perhaps  he  wishes  to  be  a  king.  Per- 
haps he  is  a  king.     I  do  not  know  his  name." 

"That  is  a  lie,  Wali  Dad.  If  you  know  his  career  you 
must  know  his  name." 

"That  is  quite  true.  I  belong  to  a  nation  of  liars.  I 
would  rather  not  tell  you  his  name.     Think  for  yourself." 

Lalun  finished  her  song,  pointed  to  the  fort  and  said 
simply:     "Khem  Singh." 

"H'm"  said  Wali  Dad.  "If  the  Pearl  chooses  to  tell 
you  the  Pearl  is  a  fool." 

I  translated  to  Lalun,  who  laughed.  "I  choose  to  tell 
what  I  choose  to  tell.  They  kept  Khem  Singh  in  Bur- 
mafi,"  said  she.  "They  kept  him  there  for  many  years 
until  his  mind  was  changed  in  him.  So  great  was  the  kind- 
ness of  the  government.  Finding  this,  they  sent  him  back 
to  his  own  country  that  he  might  look  upon  it  before  he 
died.  He  is  an  old  man,  but  when  he  looks  upon  this  his 
country  his  memory  will  come.  Moreover,  there  be 
many  who  remember  him." 

"He  is  an  interesting  survival,"  said  Wali  Dad,  pulling 
at  the  huqa.  "He  returns  to  a  country  now  full  of  edu- 
cational and  political  reform,  but,  as  the  Pearl  says,  there 
are  many  who  remember  him.  He  was  once  a  great  man. 
There  will  never  be  any  more  great  men  in  India,  They 
will  all,  when  they  are  boys,  go  whoring  after  strange 
gods,  and  they  will  become  citizens — 'fellow-citizens' — 
'illustrious  fellow-citizens.'  What  is  it  that  the  native 
papers  call  them?" 

Wali  Dad  seemed  to  be  in  a  very  bad  temper.     Lalun 


320  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

looked  out  of  the  window  and  smiled  into  the  dust-haze. 
I  went  away  thinking-  about  Khem  Singh  who  had  once 
made  history  with  a  thousand  followers,  and  would  have 
been  a  princeling  but  for  the  power  of  the  supreme  gov- 
ernment aforesaid. 

The  senior  captain  commanding  Fort  Amara  was  away 
on  leave,  but  the  subaltern,  his  deputy,  had  drifted  down 
to  the  club,  where  I  found  him  and  inquired  of  him 
whether  it  was  really  true  that  a  political  prisoner  had 
been  added  to  the  attractions  of  the  fort.  The  subaltern 
explained  at  great  length,  for  this  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  held  command  of  the  fort  and  his  glory  lay  heavy 
upon  him. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "a  man  was  sent  in  to  me  about  a  week 
ago  from  down  the  line — a  thorough  gentleman  whoever 
he  is.  Of  course  I  did  all  I  could  for  him.  He  had  his 
two  servants  and  some  silver  cooking-pots,  and  he  looked 
for  all  the  world  like  a  native  ofificer.  I  called  him  Sub- 
adar  Sahib;  just  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  y'knovv. 
'Look  here,  Subadar  Sahib,'  I  said,  'you're  handed  over 
to  my  authority,  and  I'm  supposed  to  guard  you.  Now  I 
don't  want  to  make  your  life  hard,  but  you  must  make 
things  easy  for  me.  All  the  fort  is  at  your  disposal,  from 
the  flagstaff  to  the  dry  ditch,  and  I  shall  be  happy  to  enter- 
tain you  in  any  way  I  can,  but  you  musn't  take  advan- 
tage of  it.  Give  me  your  word  that  you  won't  try  to  es- 
cape, Subadar  Sahib,  and  I'll  give  you  my  word  that  you 
shall  have  no  heavy  guard  put  over  you.'  I  thought  the 
best  way  of  getting  at  him  was  by  going  at  him  straight, 
y'know;  and  it  was,  by  Jove!  The  old  man  gave 
me  his  word,  and  moved  about  the  fort  as  contented  as  a 
sick  crow.  He's  a  rummy  chap — always  asking  to  be 
told  where  he  is  and  what  the  buildings  about  him  are.  I 
had  to  sign  a  slip  of  blue  paper  when  he  turned  up,  ac- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  32 1 

knowleclging  receipt  of  his  bod}'  and  <ill  that,  and  I'm  re- 
sponsible, y'knovv,  that  he  doesn't  get  away.  Queer 
thing,  though,  looking  after  a  Johnnie  old  enough  to  be 
your  grandfather,  isn't  it?  Come  to  the  fort  one  of  these 
days  and  see  him?" 

For  reasons  which  will  appear,  I  never  went  to  the  fort 
while  Khem  Singh  was  then  within  its  walls.  I  knew  him 
only  as  a  gray  head  seen  from  Lalun's  window — a  gray 
head  and  a  harsh  voice.  But  natives  told  me  that,  day  by 
day,  as  he  looked  upon  the  fair  lands  round  Amara,  his 
memory  came  back  to  him  and,  with  it,  the  old  hatred 
against  the  government  that  had  been  nearly  effaced  in 
far-ofif  Burmah.  So  he  raged  up  and  down  the  west  face 
of  the  fort  from  morning  till  noon  and  from  evening  till 
the  night,  devising  vain  things  in  his  heart  and  croaking 
war-songs  when  Lalun  sung  on  the  city  walls.  As  he 
grew  more  acquainted  with  the  subaltern  he  unburdened 
his  old  heart  of  some  of  the  passions  that  had  withered  it. 
"Sahib,"  he  used  to  say,  tapping  his  stick  against  the 
parapet,  "when  I  was  a  young  man  I  was  one  of  twenty 
thousand  horsemen  who  came  out  of  the  city  and  rode 
round  the  plain  here.  Sahib,  I  was  the  leader  of  a  hun- 
dred, then  of  a  thousand,  then  of  five  thousand,  and  now !" 
— he  pointed  to  his  two  servants.  "But  from  the  begin- 
ning to  to-day  I  would  cut  the  throats  of  all  the  sahibs  in 
the  land  if  I  could.  Hold  me  fast,  sahib,  lest  I  get  away 
and  return  to  those  who  would  follow  me.  I  forgot  them 
when  I  was  in  Burmah,  but  now  that  I  am  in  my  own 
country  again,  I  remember  everything." 

"Do  you  remember  that  you  have  given  me  your  honor 
not  to  make  your  tendance  a  hard  matter?"  said  the  sub- 
altern. 

"Yes,  to  you,  only  to  you,  sahib,"  said  Khem  Singh. 
"To  you  because  you  are  of  a  pleasant  countenance.  If 
21 


322  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

my  turn  comes  again,  sahib,  I  will  not  hang  you  nor  cat 
your  throat." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  subaltern  gravely,  as  he  looked 
along  the  line  of  guns  that  could  pound  the  city  to  powder 
in  half  an  hour.  "Let  us  go  into  our  own  quarters,  Khem 
Singh.     Come  and  talk  with  me  after  dinner." 

Khem  Singh  would  sit  on  his  own  cushion  at  the  sub- 
altern's feet,  drinking  heavy,  scented  anise-seed  brandy  in 
great  gulps,  and  telling  strange  stories  of  Fort  Amara, 
which  had  been  a  palace,  in  the  old  days,  of  begums  and 
ranees  tortured  to  death — ay,  in  the  very  vaulted  chamber 
that  now  served  as  a  mess-room;  would  tell  stories  of 
Sobraon  that  made  the  subaltern's  cheek  flush  and  tingle 
with  pride  of  race,  and  of  the  Kuka  rising  from  which  so 
so  much  was  expected  and  the  foreknowledge  of  which 
was  shared  by  a  hundred  thousand  souls.  But  he  never 
told  tales  of  '57  because,  as  he  said,  he  was  the  subaltern's 
guest,  and  '57  is  a  year  that  no  man^  black  or  white, 
cares  to  speak  of.  Once  only,  when  the  anise-seed  brandy 
had  slightly  aiifected  his  head,  he  said:  "Sahib,  speaking 
now  of  a  matter  which  lay  between  Sobraon  and  the  affair 
of  the  Kukas,  it  was  ever  a  wonder  to  us  that  you  stayed 
your  hand  at  all,  and  that,  having  stayed  it,  you  did  not 
make  the  land  one  prison.  Now  I  hear  from  without 
that  you  do  great  honor  to  all  men  of  our  country  and  by 
your  own  hands  are  destroying  the  terror  of  your  name 
which  is  your  strong  rock  and  defense.  This  is  a  foolish 
thing.     Will  oil  and  water  mix?     Now  in  '57 — " 

"I  was  not  born  then,  Subadar  Sahib,"  said  the  sub- 
altern, and  Khem  Singh  reeled  to  his  quarters. 

The  subaltern  would  tell  me  of  these  conversations  at 
the  club,  and  my  desire  to  see  Khem  Singh  increased. 
But  Wali  Dad,  sitting  in  the  window-seat  of  the  house  on 
the  city  wall,  said  that  it  would  be  a  cruel  thing  to  do,  and 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  323 

Lalun  pretended  that  I  preferred  the  society  of  a  grizzled 
old  Sikh  to  hers. 

"Here  is  tobacco,  here  is  talk,  here  are  many  friends 
and  all  the  news  of  the  city,  and,  above  all,  here  is  myself. 
I  will  tell  you  stories  and  sing  you  songs,  and  Wall  Dad 
will  talk  his  English  nonsense  in  your  ears.  Is  that 
worse  than  watching  the  caged  animal  yonder?  Go  to- 
morrow then,  if  you  must,  but  to-day  such  and  such  a  one 
will  be  here,  and  he  will  speak  of  wonderful  things." 

It  happened  that  to-morrow  never  came,  and  the  warm 
heat  of  the  latter  rains  gave  place  to  the  chill  of  early 
October  almost  before  I  was  aware  of  the  flight  of  the 
year.  The  captain  commanding  the  fort  returned  from 
leave  and  took  charge  of  Khem  Singh  according  to  the 
laws  of  seniority.  The  captain  was  not  a  nice  man.  He 
called  all  natives  "niggers,"  which,  besides  being  extreme 
bad  form,  shows  gross  ignorance, 

"What's  the  use  of  telling  off  two  Tommies  to  watch 
that  old  nigger?"  said  he. 

"I  fancy  it  soothes  his  vanity,"  said  the  subaltern. 
"The  men  are  ordered  to  keep  well  out  of  his  way,  but  he 
takes  them  as  a  tribute  to  his  importance,  poor  old  beast." 

"I  won't  have  hne  men  taken  ofT  regular  guards  in  this 
way.     Put  on  a  couple  of  native  infantry." 

"Sikhs?"  said  the  subaltern,  lifting  his  eyebrows. 

"Sikhs,  Pathans,  Dogras — they're  all  aUke,  these  black 
vermin,"  and  the  captain  talked  to  Khem  Singh  in  a 
manner  which  hurt  that  old  gentleman's  feelings.  Fif- 
teen years  before,  when  he  had  been  caught  for  the  second 
time,  every  one  looked  upon  him  as  a  sort  of  tiger.  He 
liked  being  regarded  in  this  light.  But  he  forgot  that 
the  world  goes  forward  in  fifteen  years,  and  many  sub- 
alterns are  promoted  to  captaincies. 

"The  captain-pig  is  in  charge  of  the  fort?"  said  Khem 


324  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Singh  to  his  native  guard  every  morning.  And  the  native 
guard  said:  "Yes,  Subadar  Sahib,"  in  deference  to  his 
age  and  his  air  of  distinction;  but  they  did  not  know  who 
he  was. 

In  those  days  the  gathering  in  Lalun's  Httle  white  room 
was  always  large  and  talked  more  mightily  than  before. 

"The  Greeks,"  said  Wali  Dad  who  had  been  borrowing 
my  books,  "the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  Athens,  where 
they  were  always  hearing  and  telling  some  new  thing, 
rigorously  secluded  their  women — who  were  mostly 
fools.  Hence  the  glorious  institution  of  the  heterodox 
women — is  it  not? — who  were  amusing  and  not  fools. 
All  the  Greek  philosophers  delighted  in  their  company. 
Tell  me,  my  friend,  how  it  goes  now  in  Greece  and  the 
other  places  upon  the  Continent  of  Europe.  Are  your 
women-folk  also  fools?" 

"Wali  Dad,"  I  said,  "you  never  speak  to  us  about  your 
women-folk  and  we  never  speak  about  ours  to  you.  That 
is  the  bar  between  us." 

"Yes,''  said  Wali  Dad,  "it  is  curious  to  think  that  our 
common  meeting-place  should  be  here,  in  the  house  of  a 
common — how  do  you  call  her?"  He  pointed  with  the 
pipe-mouth  to  Lalun. 

'TLalun  is  nothing  else  but  Lalun,"  I  said,  and  that 
was  perfectly  true.  "But  if  you  took  your  place  in  the 
world,  Wali  Dad,  and  gave  up  dreaming  dreams — " 

"I  might  wear  an  English  coat  and  trousers.  I  might 
be  a  leading  Mohammedan  pleader.  I  might  even  be 
received  at  the  commissioner's  tennis-parties  where  the 
English  stand  on  one  side  and  the  natives  on  the  other, 
in  order  to  promote  social  intercourse  throughout  the 
empire.  Heart's  heart,"  said  he  to  Lalun,  quickly,  "the 
sahib  says  that  I  ought  to  quit  you.'' 

"The  sahib  is  always  talking  stupid  talk,"  returned 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  325 

Lalun  with  a  laugh.  "In  this  house  I  am  a  queen  and 
thou  art  a  king.  The  sahib" — she  put  her  arms  above 
her  head  and  thought  for  a  moment — ''the  sahib  shall  be 
our  vizier — thine  and  mine,  Wali  Dad,  because  he  has 
said  that  thou  shouldst  leave  me." 

Wali  Dad  laughed  immoderately,  and  I  laughed  too. 
"Be  it  so,"  said  he.  "My  friend,  are  you  willing  to  take 
this  lucrative  government  appointment?  Lalun,  what 
shall  his  pay  be?" 

But  Lalun  began  to  sing,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  time 
there  was  no  hope  of  getting  a  sensible  answer  from  her 
or  Wali  Dad.  When  one  stopped,  the  other  began 
to  quote  Persian  poetry  with  a  triple  pun  in  every  other 
line.  Some  of  it  was  not  strictly  proper,  but  it  was  all 
very  funny,  and  it  only  came  to  an  end  when  a  fat  person 
in  black,  with  gold  pince-nez,  sent  up  his  name  to  Lalun, 
and  Wali  Dad  dragged  me  into  the  twinkling  night  to 
walk  in  a  big  rose  garden  and  talk  heresies  about  religion 
and  governments  and  a  man's  career  in  life. 

The  Mohurrum,  the  great  mourning  festival  of  the  Mo- 
hammedans, was  close  at  hand,  and  the  things  that  Wali 
Dad  said  about  religious  fanaticism  would  have  secured 
his  expulsion  from  the  loosest-thinking  Moslem  sect. 
There  were  the  rose  bushes  round  us,  the  stars  above  us, 
and  from  every  quarter  of  the  city  came  the  boom  of  the 
big  Mohurrum  drums.  You  must  know  that  the  city  is 
divided  in  fairly  equal  proportions  between  the  Hindoos 
and  the  Mussulmans,  and  when  both  creeds  belong  to  the 
fighting  races,  a  big  religious  festival  gives  ample  chance 
for  trouble.  When  they  can — that  is  to  say  when  the 
authorities  are  weak  enough  to  allow  it — the  Hindoos  do 
their  best  to  arrange  some  minor  feast-day  of  their  own 
in  time  to  clash  with  the  period  of  general  mourning  for 
the  martvrs  Hasan  and  Hussain,  the  heroes  of  the  Mo- 


326  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

hurriim.  Gilt  and  painted  paper  presentations  of  their 
tombs  are  borne  with  shouting  and  wailing,  music, 
torches  and  yells,  through  the  principal  thoroughfares  of 
the  city;  which  fakements  are  called  tazias.  Their  pass- 
age is  rigorously  laid  down  beforehand  by  the  police,  and 
detachments  of  police  accompany  each  tazia,  lest  the  Hin- 
doos should  throw  bricks  at  it  and  the  peace  of  the  queen 
and  the  heads  of  her  loyal  subjects  should  thereby  be 
broken.  Mohurrum  time  in  a  "fighting"  town  means 
anxiety  to  all  the  ol^cials,  because,  if  a  riot  breaks  out, 
the  oflficials  and  not  the  rioters  are  held  responsible.  The 
former  must  foresee  everything,  and  while  not  making 
their  precautions  ridiculously  elaborate,  must  see  that 
they  are  at  least  adequate. 

''Listen  to  the  drums!"  said  Wali  Dad.  "That  is  the 
heart  of  the  people — empty  and  making  much  noise. 
How,  think  you,  will  the  Mohurrum  go  this  year?  I 
think  that  there  will  be  trouble." 

He  turned  down  a  side-street  and  left  me  alone  with 
the  stars  and  a  sleepy  police  patrol.  Then  I  went  to  bed 
and  dreamed  that  Wali  Dad  had  sacked  the  city  and  I 
was  made  vizier,  with  Lalun's  silver  huqa  for  mark  of 
office. 

All  day  the  Mohurrum  drums  beat  in  the  city,  and  all 
day  deputations  of  tearful  Hindoo  gentlemen  besieged  the 
deputy  commissioner  with  assurances  that  they  would  be 
murdered  ere  next  dawning  by  the  Mohammedans. 
"Which,"  said  the  deputy  commissioner,  in  confidence  to 
the  head  of  police,  "is  a  pretty  fair  indication  that  the 
Hindoos  are  going  to  make  'emselves  unpleasant.  I 
think  we  can  arrange  a  little  surprise  for  them.  I  have 
given  the  heads  of  both  creeds  fair  warning.  If  they 
choose  to  disregard  it,  so  much  the  worse  for  them." 

There  was  a  large  gathering  in  Lalun's  house  that 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  327 

night,  but  of  men  that  I  had  never  seen  before,  if  I  except 
the  fat  gentleman  in  black  with  the  gold  pince-nez.  Wali 
Dad  lay  in  the  window-seat,  more  bitterly  scornful  of  his 
faith  and  its  manifestations  than  I  had  ever  known  him. 
Lalun's  maid  was  very  busy  cutting  up  and  mixing  to- 
bacco for  the  guests.  We  could  hear  the  thunder  of  the 
drums  as  the  processions  accompanying  each  tazia 
marched  to  the  central  gathering  place  in  the  plain  out- 
side the  city,  preparatory  to  their  triumphant  re-entry 
and  circuit  within  the  walls.  All  the  streets  seemed 
ablaze  with  torches,  and  only  Fort  Amara  was  black  and 
silent. 

When  the  noise  of  the  drums  ceased,  no  one  in  the 
white  room  spoke  for  a  time.  "The  first  tazia  has  moved 
ofT,"  said  Wali  Dad,  looking  to  the  plain. 

"That  is  very  early,"  said  the  man  with  the  pince-nez. 
"It  is  only  half  past  eight."  The  company  rose  and  de- 
parted. 

"Some  of  them  were  men  from  Ladakh,"  said  Lalun, 
when  the  last  had  gone.  "They  brought  me  brick-tea 
such  as  the  Russians  sell,  and  a  tea-urn  from  Peshawur. 
Show  me,  now,  how  the  English  memsahibs  make  tea." 

The  brick-tea  was  abominable.  When  it  was  finished 
Wali  Dad  suggested  a  descent  into  the  streets.  "I  am 
nearly  sure  that  there  will  be  trouble  to-night,"  he  said. 
"All  the  city  thinks  so,  and  Vox  Populi  is  Vox  Dei,  as 
the  Babus  say.  Now  I  tell  you  that  at  the  corner  of 
the  Padshahi  Gate  you  will  find  my  horse  all  this  night  if 
you  want  to  go  about  and  see  things.  It  is  a  most  dis- 
graceful exhibition.  Where  is  the  pleasure  of  saying  'Ya 
Hasan,  Ya  Hussain'  twenty  thousand  times  in  a  night?" 

All  the  professions — there  were  two-and-twenty  of 
them — were  now  well  within  the  city  walls.  The  drums 
were  beating  afresh,  the  crowd  were  howling  " Ya  Hasan ! 


328  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

Ya  Hussain !"  and  beating  their  breasts,  the  brass  bands 
were  playing  their  loudest,  and  at  every  corner  where 
space  allowed  Mohammedan  preachers  were  telling  the 
lamentable  story  of  the  death  of  the  martyrs.  It  was  im- 
possible to  move  except  with  the  crowd,  for  the  streets 
were  not  more  than  twenty  feet  wide.  In  the  Hindoo 
quarters  the  shutters  of  all  the  shops  were  up  and  cross- 
barred.  As  the  first  tazia,  a  gorgeous  erection  ten  feet 
high,  was  borne  aloft  on  the  shoulders  of  a  score  of  stout 
men  into  the  semi-darkness  of  the  gully  of  the  horsemen, 
a  brickbat  crashed  through  its  talc  and  tinsel  sides. 

"Into  Thy  hands,  oh.  Lord!"  murmured  Wali  Dad, 
profanely,  as  a  yell  went  up  from  behind,  and  a  native 
officer  of  poUce  jammed  his  horse  through  the  crowd. 
Another  brickbat  followed,  and  the  tazia  staggered  and 
swayed  where  it  had  stopped. 

"Go  on!  In  the  name  of  the  Sirkar,  go  forward!'' 
shouted  the  policeman,  but  there  was  an  ugly  cracking 
and  splintering  of  shutters,  and  the  crowd  halted,  with 
oaths  and  growlings,  before  the  house  whence  the  brick- 
bat had  been  thrown. 

Then,  without  any  warning,  broke  the  storm — not  only 
in  the  gully  of  the  horsemen,  but  in  half  a  dozen  other 
places.  The  tazias  rocked  like  ships  at  sea,  the  long  pole- 
torches  dipped  and  rose  round  them  while  the  men  shout- 
ed: "The  Hindoos  are  dishonoring  the  tazias!  Strike! 
Strike!  Into  their  temples  for  the  faith!"  The  six  or 
eight  policemen  with  each  tazia  drew  their  batons,  and 
struck  as  long  as  they  could  in  the  hope  of  forcing  the 
mob  forward,  but  they  were  overpowered,  and  as  contin- 
gents of  Hindoos  poured  into  the  streets,  the  fight  be- 
came general.  Half  a  mile  away  where  the  tazias  were 
yet  untouched,  the  drums  and  the  shrieks  of  "Ya  Hasan ! 
Ya  Hussain!"  continued,  but  not  for  long.     The  priests 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  329 

at  the  corners  of  the  streets  knocked  the  legs  from  the 
bedsteads  that  supported  their  pulpits  and  smote  for  the 
faith,  while  stones  fell  from  the  silent  houses  upon  friend 
and  foe,  and  the  packed  streets  bellowed:  "Din!  Din! 
Din!"  A  tazia  caught  fire,  and  was  dropped  for  a  flam- 
ing barrier  between  Hindoo  and  Mussulman  at  the  corner 
of  the  gully.  Then  the  crowd  surged  forward,  and  Wali 
Dad  drew  me  close  to  the  stone  pillar  of  a  well. 

"It  was  intended  from  the  beginning!"  he  shouted  in 
my  ear,  with  more  heat  than  blank  unbelief  should  be 
guilty  of.  "The  bricks  were  carried  up  to  the  houses  be- 
forehand. These  swine  of  Hindoos!  We  shall  be  gut- 
ting kine  in  their  temples  to-night!" 

Tazia  after  tazia,  some  burning,  others  torn  to  pieces, 
hurried  past  us  and  the  mob  with  them,  howling,  shriek- 
ing, and  striking  at  the  house  doors  in  their  flight.  At 
last  we  saw  the  reason  of  the  rush.  Hugonin,  the  assist- 
ant district  superintendent  of  police,  a  boy  of  twenty,  had 
got  together  thirty  constables  and  was  forcing  the  crowd 
through  the  streets.  His  old  gray  police-horse  showed 
no  sign  of  uneasiness  as  it  was  spurred  breast-on  into  the 
crowd,  and  the  long  dog-whip  with  which  he  had  armed 
himself  was  never  still. 

"They  know  we  haven't  enough  police  to  hold  'em," 
he  cried  as  he  passed  me,  mopping  a  cut  on  his  face. 
"They  know  we  haven't!  Aren't  any  of  the  men  from 
the  club  coming  down  to  help?  Get  on,  you  sons  of 
burned  fathers !"  The  dog-whip  cracked  across  the  writh- 
ing backs,  and  the  constables  smote  afresh  with  baton  and 
gun-butt.  With  these  passed  the  lights  and  the  shouting, 
and  Wali  Dad  began  to  swear  under  his  breath.  From 
Fort  Amara  shot  up  a  single  rocket;  then  two  side  by  side. 
It  was  the  signal  for  troops. 

Petitt,   the  deputy  commissioner,  covered  with   dust 


.330  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

and  sweat,  but  calm  and  gently  smiling,  cantered  up  the 
clean-swept  street  in  rear  of  the  main  body  of  the  rioters. 
"No  one  killed  yet,"  he  shouted.  "I'll  keep  'em  on  the 
run  till  dawn!  Don't  let  'em  halt,  Hugonin!  Trot  'em 
about  till  the  troops  come." 

The  science  of  the  defense  lay  solely  in  keeping  the  mob 
on  the  move.  If  they  had  breathing-space  they  would 
halt  and  fire  a  house,  and  then  the  work  of  restoring 
order,  would  be  more  difficult,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 
Flames  have  the  same  effect  on  a  crowd  as  blood  has  on  a 
wild  beast. 

Word  had  reached  the  club  and  men  in  evening-dress 
were  beginning  to  show  themselves  and  lend  a  hand  in 
heading  ofif  and  breaking  up  the  shouting  masses  with 
stirrup-leathers,  whips  or  chance-found  staves.  They 
were  not  very  often  attacked,  for  the  rioters  had  sense 
enough  to  know  that  the  death  of  a  European  would  not 
mean  one  hanging  but  many,  and  possibly  the  appearance 
of  the  thrice-dreaded  artillery.  The  clamor  in  the  city 
redoubled.  The  Hindoos  had  descended  into  the  streets 
in  real  earnest  and  ere  long  the  mob  returned.  It  was  a 
strange  sight.  There  were  no  tazias — only  their  riven 
platforms — and  there  w^ere  no  police.  Here  and  there 
a  city  dignitary,  Hindoo  or  Mohammedan,  was  vainly  Im- 
ploring his  coreligionists  to  keep  quiet  and  behave  them- 
selves— advice  for  which  his  white  beard  was  pulled  with 
contumely.  Then  a  native  officer  of  police,  unhorsed  but 
still  using  his  spurs  with  efifect,  would  be  seen  borne  along 
in  the  throng,  warning  all  the  world  of  the  danger  of  in- 
sulting the  government.  Everywhere  were  men  striking 
aimlessly  with  sticks,  grasping  each  other  by  the  throat, 
howling  and  foaming  with  rage,  or  beating  with  their 
bare  hands  on  the  doors  of  the  houses. 

"It  is  a  lucky  thing  that  they  are  fighting  with  natural 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  331 

weapons,"  I  said  to  Wali  Dad,  "else  we  should  have  half 
the  city  killed." 

I  turned  as  I  spoke  and  looked  at  his  face.  His  nostrils 
were  distended,  his  e}es  were  fixed,  and  he  was  smiling 
himself  softly  on  the  breast.  The  crowd  poured  by  with 
renewed  riot — a  gang  of  Mussulmans  hard-pressed  by 
some  hundred  Hindoo  fanatics.  Wali  Dad  left  my  side 
with  an  oath,  and  shouting:  "Ya  Hasan!  Ya  Hussain!" 
plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  fight  where  I  lost  sight  of 
him. 

I  fled  by  a  side  alley  to  the  Padshahi  Gate  where  I 
found  Wali  Dad's  house,  and  thence  rode  to  the  fort. 
Once  outside  the  city  wall,  the  tumult  sunk  to  a  dull  roar, 
very  impressive  under  the  stars  and  reflecting  great  cred- 
it on  the  fifty  thousand  angry  able-bodied  men  who  were 
making  it.  The  troops  who,  at  the  deputy  commission- 
ers instance,  had  been  ordered  to  rendezvous  quietly  near 
the  fort,  showed  no  signs  of  being  impressed.  Two  com- 
panies of  native  infantry,  a  squadron  of  native  cavalry  and 
a  company  of  British  infantry  were  kicking  their  heels 
in  the  shadow  of  the  east  face,  waiting  for  orders  to  march 
in.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  they  w'ere  all  pleased,  un- 
holily  pleased,  at  the  chance  of  what  they  called  "a  little 
fun."  The  senior  officers,  to  be  sure,  grumbled  at  hav- 
ing been  kept  out  of  bed,  and  the  English  troops  pre- 
tended to  be  sulky,  but  there  was  joy  in  the  hearts  of  all 
the  subalterns,  and  whispers  ran  up  and  down  the  line: 
"No  ball  cartridge — what  a  beastly  shame!"  "D'you 
think  the  beggars  will  really  stand  up  to  us?"  "Hope  I 
shall  meet  my  money-lender  there.  I  owe  him  more 
than  I  can  afford."  "Oh,  they  won't  let  us  even  unsheath 
swords."  "Hurrah!  Up  goes  the  fourth  rocket.  Fall 
in,  there!" 

The  garrison  artillery,  who  to  the  last  cherished  a  wild 


ZZ2  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

hope  that  they  might  be  allowed  to  bombard  the  city  at  a 
hundred  yards'  range,  lined  the  parapet  above  the  east 
gateway  and  cheered  themselves  hoarse  as  the  British  in- 
fantry doubled  along  the  road  to  the  main  gate  of  the 
city.  The  cavalry  cantered  on  to  the  Padshahi  Gate,  and 
the  native  infantry  marched  slowly  to  the  Gate  of  the 
Butchers.  The  surprise  was  intended  to  be  of  a  distinct- 
ly unpleasant  nature,  and  to  come  on  top  of  the  defeat  of 
the  police  who  had  just  been  able  to  keep  the  Moham- 
medans from  firing  the  houses  of  a  few  leading  Hindoos. 
The  bulk  of  the  riot  lay  in  the  north  and  north-west 
wards.  The  east  and  south-east  were  by  this  time  dark 
and  silent,  and  I  rode  hastily  to  Lalun's  house,  for  T 
wished  to  tell  her  to  send  some  one  in  search  of  Wali  Dad. 
The  house  was  unlighted,  but  the  door  was  open,  and  I 
climbed  upstairs  in  the  darkness.  One  small  lamp  in  the 
^vhite  room  showed  Lalun  and  her  maid  leaning  half  out 
of  the  window,  breathing  heavily  and  evidently  pulling  at 
something  that  refused  to  come. 

"Thou  art  late — very  late,"  gasped  Lalun  without  turn- 
ing her  head.  "Help  us  now,  oh,  fool,  if  thou  hast  not 
spent  thy  strength  howling  among  the  tazias.  Pull! 
"Nasiban  and  I  can  do  no  more!  Oh,  sahib,  is  it  you? 
The  Hindoos  have  been  hunting  an  old  Mohammedan 
round  the  ditch  with  clubs.  If  they  find  him  again  they 
will  kill  him.     Help  us  to  pull  him  up." 

I  laid  my  hands  to  the  long  red  silk  waist-cloth  that 
was  hanging  out  of  the  window,  and  we  three  pulled  and 
pulled  with  all  the  strength  at  our  command.  There  was 
something  very  heavy  at  the  end,  and  it  was  swearing  in 
an  unknown  tongue  as  it  kicked  against  the  city  wall. 

"Pull,  oh,  pull!"  said  Lalun  at  the  last.  A  pair  of 
brown  hands  grasped  the  window-sill  and  a  venerable 
Mohammedan  tumbled  upon  the  floor,  very  much  out  of 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  333 

breath.  His  jaws  were  tied  up,  and  his  turban  had  fallen 
over  one  eye.     He  was  dusty  and  angry. 

Lalun  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  for  an  instant  and  said 
something  about  \\'ali  Dad  that  I  could  not  catch. 

Then,  to  my  extreme  gratification,  she  threw  her  arms 
round  my  neck  and  murmured  pretty  things.  I  was  in 
no  haste  to  stop  her;  and  Nasiban,  being  a  handmaiden 
of  tact,  turned  to  the  big  jewel-chest  that  stands  in  the 
corner  of  the  white  room  and  rummaged  among  the  con- 
tents.    The  Mohammedan  sat  on  the  floor  and  glared. 

"One  service  more,  sahib,  since  thou  hast  come  so  op- 
portunely." said  Lalun.  "Wilt  thou" — it  is  very  nice  to 
be  thou-ed  by  Lalun — "take  this  old  man  across  the  city 
— the  troops  are  everywhere,  and  they  might  hurt  him, 
for  he  is  old — to  the  Kumharsen  Gate?  There  I  think  he 
may  find  a  carriage  to  take  him  to  his  house.  He  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  thou  art — more  than  a  friend .... 
therefore  I  ask  this." 

Nasiban  bent  over  the  old  man,  tucked  something  into 
his  belt,  and  I  raised  him  up,  and  led  him  into  the  streets. 
In  crossing  from  the  east  to  the  west  of  the  city  there  was 
no  chance  of  avoiding  the  troops  and  the  crowd.  Long- 
before  I  reached  the  gully  of  horsemen  I  heard  the  shouts 
of  the  British  infantry  crying  cheerily:  "Hutt,  ye  beg- 
gars! Hutt,  ye 'devils!  Get  along!  Go  forward,  there! 
Then  followed  the  ringing  of  rifle-butts  and  shrieks  of 
pain.  The  troops  were  banging  the  bare  toes  of  the  mob 
with  their  butts  —  not  a  bayonet  had  been  fixed. 
My  companion  mumbled  and  jabbered  as  we  walked 
on  until  we  were  carried  back  by  the  crowd  and  had  to 
force  our  way  to  the  troops.  I  caught  him  by  the  wrists 
and  felt  a  bangle  thereon — the  iron  bangle  of  the  Sikhs 
— ^but  I  had  no  suspicions,  for  Lalun  had  only  ten  min- 
utes before  put  her  arms  around  me.     Thrice  we  were 


334  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

carried  back  by  the  crowd,  and  when  we  won  our  way 
past  the  British  infantry  it  was  to  meet  the  Sikh  cavalry 
driving  another  mob  before  them  w^ith  the  butts  of  their 
lances. 

"What  are  these  dogs?"  said  the  old  man. 

"Sikhs  of  the  cavalry,  father,"  I  said,  and  we  edged  our 
way  up  the  line  of  horses  two  abreast  and  found  the 
deputy  commissioner,  his  helmet  smashed  on  his  heaB, 
surrounded  by  a  knot  of  men  who  had  come  down  from 
the  club  as  amateur  constables  and  had  helped  the  police 
mightily. 

"We'll  keep  'em  on  the  run  till  dawn,"  said  Petitt. 
"Who's  your  villainous  friend?" 

I  had  only  time  to  say,  "The  protection  of  the  Sirkar!" 
when  a  fresh  crowd  flying  before  the  native  infantry  car- 
ried us  a  hundred  yards  nearer  to  tlie  Kumharsen  Gate, 
and  Petitt  was  swept  away  like  a  shadow. 

"I  do  not  know — I  can  not  see — it  is  all  new  to  me!" 
moaned  my  companion.  "How  many  troops  are  there  in 
the  city?" 

"Perhaps  five  hundred,"  I  said. 

"A  lakh  of  men  beaten  by  five  hundred — and  Sikhs 
among  them!  Surely,  surely,  I  am  an  old  man,  but — the 
Kumharsen  Gate  is  new.  Who  pulled  down  the  stone 
lions?  Where  is  the  conduit?  Sahib,  I  am  a  very  old 
man,  and,  alas,  I — I  can  not  stand."  He  dropped  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Kumharsen  Gate  where  there  was  no  dis- 
turbance. A  fat  gentleman  wearing  gold  pince-nez  came 
out  of  the  darkness. 

"You  are  most  kind  to  bring  my  old  friend,"  he  said, 
suavely.  "He  is  a  landholder  of  Akala.  He  should  not 
be  in  a  big  city  when  there  is  religious  excitement.  But  I 
have  a  carriage  here.  You  are  quite  truly  kind.  Will  you 
help  me  to  put  him  into  the  carriage?    It  is  very  late." 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  335 

We  bundled  the  old  man  into  a  hired  victoria  that  stood 
close  to  the  gate,  and  I  turned  back  to  the  house  on  the 
city  wall.  The  troops  were  driving  the  people  to  and  fro. 
while  the  police  shouted,  "To  your  houses !  Get  to  your 
houses!"  and  the  dog-whip  of  the  assistant  district  super- 
intendent cracked  remorselessly.  Terror-stricken  bun- 
nias  clung  to  the  stirrups  of  the  cavalry,  crying  that  their 
houses  had  been  robbed  (which  was  a  lie),  and  the  burly 
Sikh  horsemen  patted  them  on  the  shoulder  and  bade 
them  return  to  those  houses  lest  a  worse  thing  should 
happen.  Parties  of,  live  or  six  British  soldiers,  joining 
arms,  swept  down  the  side-gullies,  their  rifles  on  their 
backs,  stamping,  with  shouting  and  song,  upon  the  toes 
of  Hindoo  and  Mussulman.  Never  was  religious  en- 
thusiasm more  systematically  squashed;  and  never  were 
poor  breakers  of  the  peace  more  utterly  weary  and  foot- 
sore. They  were  routed  out  of  holes  and  corners,  from 
behind  well-pillars  and  byres,  and  bidden  to  go  to  their 
houses.  If  they  had  no  houses  to  go  to,  so  much  the 
worse  for  their  toes. 

On  returning  to  Lalun's  door  I  stumbled  over  a  man 
at  the  threshold.  He  was  sobbing  hysterically  and  his 
arms  flapped  like  the  wings  of  a  goose.  It  was  Wali  Dad, 
agnostic  and  unbeliever,  shoeless,  turbanless,  and  froth- 
ing at  the  mouth,  the  flesh  on  his  chest  bruised  and  bleed- 
ing from  the  vehemence  with  which  he  had  smitten  him- 
self. A  broken  torch-handle  lay  by  his  side,  and  his 
quivering  lips  murmured,  "Ya  Hasan!  Ya  Hussain!"  as  I 
stooped  over  him.  I  pushed  him  a  few  steps  up  the  stair- 
case, threw  a  pebble  at  Lalun's  city  window,  and  hurried 
home. 

Most  of  the  streets  were  very  still,  and  the  cold  wind 
that  comes  before  the  dawn  whistled  down  them.  In  the 
center  of  the  square  of  the  mosque  a  man  was  bending 


336  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

over  a  corpse.    The  skull  had  been  smashed  in  by  gun 
butt  or  bamboo  stave. 

"It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die  for  the  peo- 
ple," said  Petitt,  grimly,  raising  the  shapeless  head. 
"These  brutes  were  beginning  to  show  their  teeth  too 
much" 

And  from  afar  we  could  hear  the  soldiers  singing: 

"Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes,"  as  they  drove  the  remnant 
of  the  rioters  within  doors. 

******** 

Of  course  you  can  guess  what  happened?  I  was  not 
so  clever.  When  the  news  went  abroad  that  Khem  Singh 
had  escaped  from  the  fort,  I  did  not,  since  I  was  then  liv- 
ing the  story,  not  writing  it,  connect  myself,  or  Lalun,  or 
the  fat  gentleman  of  the  gold  pince-nez,  with  his  disap- 
pearance. Nor  did  it  strike  me  that  Wali  Dad  was  the 
man  who  should  have  steered  him  across  the  city,  or  that 
Lalun's  arms  round  my  neck  were  put  there  to  hide  the 
money  that  Nasiban  gave  to  him,  and  that  Lalun  had 
used  me  and  my  white  face  as  even  a  better  safeguard 
than  Wali  Dad,  who  proved  himself  so  untrustworthy. 
All  that  I  knew  at  the  time  was  that,  when  Fort  Amara 
was  taken  up  with  the  riots.  Khem  Singh  profited  by  the 
confusion  to  get  away,  and  that  his  two  Sikh  guards  also 
escaped. 

But  later  on  I  received  full  enlightenment ;  and  so  did 
Khem  Singh.  He  fled  to  those  who  knew  him  in  the  old 
days,  but  many  of  them  were  dead  and  more  were 
changed,  and  all  knew  something  of  the  wrath  of  the 
government.  He  went  to  the  young  men,  but  the 
glamour  of  his  name  had  passed  away,  and  they  were 
entering  native  regiments  or  government  offices,  and 
Khem  Singh  could  give  them  neither  pension,  decora- 
tions, nor  influence— nothing  but  a  glorious  death  with 

\ 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  337 

their  backs  to  the  mouth  of  a  gun.  He  wrote  letters  and 
made  promises,  and  the  letters  fell  into  bad  hands,  and  a 
wholly  insignificant  subordinate  officer  of  police  tracked 
them  down  and  gained  promotion  thereby.  Moreover, 
Khem  Singh  was  old,  and  anise-seed  brandy  was  scarce, 
and  he  had  left  his  silver  cooking-pots  in  Fort  Amara 
with  his  nice  warm  bedding,  and  the  gentleman  with  the 
gold  pince-nez  was  told  by  those  who  had  employed  him 
that  Khem  Singh  as  a  popular  leader  was  not  worth  the 
money  paid. 

"Great  is  the  mercy  of  these  fools  of  English,"  said 
Khem  Singh  when  the  situation  was  explained.  "I  will 
go  back  to  Fort  Amara  of  my  own  free  will  and  gain 
honor.     Give  me  good  clothes  to  return  in." 

So,  upon  a  day,  Khem  Singh  knocked  at  the  wicket 
gate  of  the  fort  and  walked  to  the  captain  and'  the 
subaltern  who  were  nearly  gray-headed  on  account  of  cor- 
respondence that  daily  arrived  from  Simla  marked 
"Private." 

"I  have  come  back,  Captain  Sahib,"  said  Khem  Singh. 
"Put  no  more  guards  over  me.  It  is  no  good  out  yon- 
der." 

A  week  later  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  to  my  knowl- 
edge, and  he  made  as  though  there  were  an  understand- 
ing between  us. 

"It  was  well  done,  sahib,"  said  he,  "  and  greatly  I  ad- 
mired your  astuteness  in  thus  boldly  facing  the  troops 
when  I,  whom  they  would  have  doubtless  torn  to  pieces, 
was  with  you.  Now  there  is  a  man  in  Fort  Ooltagarh 
whom  a  bold  man  could  with  ease  help  to  escape.  This 
is  the  position  of  the  fort  as  I  draw  it  on  the  sand.  . ." 

But  I  was  thinking  how  I  had  become  Lalun's  vizier 
after  all. 

^      22 


338  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 


THE  ARREST  OF  LIEUTENANT  GOLIGHTLY. 

"  'I've  forgotten  the  countersign,'  sez  'e. 

'Oh!     You  'ave,  'ave  you?'  sez  I. 

'But  I'm  the  Colonel,'  sez  'e. 

'Oh!  You  are,  are  you?'  sez  I.  'Colonel  nor  no  Colonel,  you 
waits  'ere  till  I'm  relieved,  an'  the  Sarjint  reports  on  your  ugly 
old  mug.     Coop!'   sez  I. 


An'  s'elp  me  soul,  'twas  the  Colonel  after  all!  But  I  was  a 
recruity  then.'  " 

— The  Unedited  Autobiography  of  Private  Ortheris. 

If  there  was  one  thing  on  which  Golightly  prided  him- 
self more  than  another,  it  was  looking  like  "an  Ofificer 
and  a  Gentleman."  He  said  it  was  for  the  honor  of  the 
Service  that  he  attired  himself  so  elaborately;  but  those 
who  knew  him  best  said  it  was  just  personal  vanity.  There 
was  no  harm  about  Golightly — not  an  ounce.  He  recog- 
nized a  horse  when  he  saw  one,  and  could  do  more  than 
fill  a  cantle.  He  played  a  very  fair  game  at  billiards,  and 
was  a  sound  man  at  the  whist-table.  Everyone  liked 
him;  and  nobody  ever  dreamed  of  seeing  him  hand- 
cuffed on  a  station  platform  as  a  deserter.  But  this  sad 
thing  happened. 

He  was  going  down  from  Dalhousie,  at  the  end  of  his 
leave — riding  down.  He  had  cut  his  leave  as  fine  as  he 
dared,  and  wanted  to  come  down  in  a  hurry. 

It  was  fairly  warm  at  Dalhousie,  and,  knowing  what 
to  expect  below,  he  descended  in  a  new  khaki  suit — 
tight  fitting — of  a  delicate  olive-green;  a  peacock-blue 
tie,  white  collar,  and  a  snowy  white  solah  helmet.  He 
prided  himself  on  looking  neat  even  when  he  was  riding 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  339 

post.  He  did  look  neat,  and  he  was  so  deeply  concerned 
about  his  appearance  before  he  started  that  he  quite  for- 
got to  take  anything  but  some  small  change  with  him. 
He  left  all  his  notes  at  the  hotel.  His  servants  had  gone 
down  the  road  before  him,  to  be  ready  in  waiting  at  Pa- 
thankote  with  a  change  of  gear.  That  was  what  he  called 
traveling  in  "light  marching-order."  He  was  proud  of 
his  faculty  of  organization — what  we  call  bundobust. 

Twenty-two  miles  out  of  Dalhousie  it  began  to  rain — 
not  a  mere  hill-shower  but  a  good,  tepid  monsoonish 
downpour.  Golightly  bustled  on,  wishing  that  he  had 
brought  an  umbrella.  The  dust  on  the  roads  turned  into 
mud,  and  the  pony  mired  a  good  deal.  So  did  Golightly's 
khaki  gaiters.  But  he  kept  on  steadily  and  tried  to  think 
how  pleasant  the  coolth  was. 

His  next  pony  was  rather  a  brute  at  starting,  and  Go- 
lightly's hands  being  slippery  with  the  rain,  contrived  to 
get  rid  of  Golightly  at  a  corner.  He  chased  the  animal, 
caught  it,  and  went  ahead  briskly.  The  spill  had  not  im- 
proved his  clothes  or  his  temper,  and  he  had  lost  one 
spur.  He  kept  the  other  one  employed.  By  the  time 
that  stage  was  ended,  the  pony  had  had  as  much  ex- 
ercise as  he  wanted  and,  in  spite  of  the  rain,  Golightly 
was  sweating  freely.  At  the  end  of  another  miserable 
half-hour,  Golightly  found  the  world  disappear  before  his 
eyes  in  clammy  pulp.  The  rain  had  turned  the  pith  of 
his  huge  and  snowy  solah-topee  into  an  evil-smelling 
dough,  and  it  had  closed  on  his  head  like  a  half-opened 
mushroom.  Also  the  green  lining  was  beginning  to 
run. 

Golightly  did  not  say  anything  worth  recording  here. 
He  tore  off  and  squeezed  up  as  much  of  the  brim  as  was 
in  his  eyes  and  ploughed  on.  The  back  of  the  helmet 
was  flapping  on  his  neck  and  the  sides  stuck  10  his  ears. 


340  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

but  the  leather  band  and  green  lining  kept  things  roughly 
together,  so  that  the  hat  did  not  actually  melt  away  where 
it  flapped. 

Presently,  the  pulp  and  the  green  stuflf  made  a  sort  of 
slimy  mildew  which  ran  over  Golightly  in  several  direc- 
tions— down  his  back  and  bosom  for  choice.  The  khaki 
color  ran  too — it  was  really  shockingly  bad  dye — and 
sections  of  Golightly  were  brown,  and  patches  were  violet, 
and  contours  were  ochre,  and  streaks  were  ruddy  red,  and 
blotches  were  nearly  white,  according  to  the  nature  and 
peculiarities  of  the  dye.  When  he  took  out  his  hand- 
kerchief to  wipe  his  face  and  the  green  of  the  hat-lining 
and  the  purple  stuff  that  had  soaked  through  on  to  his 
neck  from  the  tie  became  thoroughly  mixed,  the  eflfect 
was  amazing. 

Near  Dhar  the  rain  stopped  and  the  evening  sun  came 
out  and  dried  him  up  slightly.  It  fixed  the  colors,  too. 
Three  miles  from  Pathankote  the  last  pony  fell  dead  lame, 
and  Golightly  was  forced  to  walk.  He  pushed  on  into 
Pathankote  to  find  his  servants.  He  did  not  know  then 
that  his  khitmatgar  had  stopped  by  the  roadside  to  get 
drunk,  and  would  come  on  the  next  day  saying  that  he 
had  sprained  his  ankle.  When  he  got  into  Pathankote, 
he  couldn't  find  his  servants,  his  boots  were  stiff  and  ropy 
with  mud,  and  there  were  large  quantities  of  dirt  about 
his  body.  The  blue  tie  had  run  as  much  as  the  khaki. 
So  he  took  it  off  with  the  collar  and  threw  it  away.  Then 
Tie  said  something  about  servants  generally  and  tried  to 
get  a  peg.  He  paid  eight  annas  for  the  drink,  and  this 
revealed  to  him  that  he  had  only  six  annas  more  in  his 
pocket — or  in  the  world  as  he  stood  at  that  hour. 

He  went  to  the  Station-Master  to  negotiate  for  a  first- 
class  ticket  to  Khasa,  where  he  was  stationed.  The  book- 
ing-clerk said  something  to  the  Station-Master,  the  Sta- 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  34I 

tion-Master  said  something  to  the  Telegraph  Clerk,  and 
the  three  looked  at  him  with  curiosity.  They  asked  him 
to  wait  for  half-an-hour,  while  they  telegraphed  to  Um- 
ritsar  for  authority.  So  he  waited  and  four  constables 
came  and  grouped  themselves  picturesquely  round  him. 
Just  as  he  was  preparing  to  ask  them  to  go  away,  the 
Station-Master  said  that  he  would  give  the  Sahib  a  ticket 
to  Umritsar,  if  the  Sahib  would  kindly  come  inside  the 
booking-office.  Golightly  stepped  inside,  and  the  next 
thing  he  knew  was  that  a  constable  was  attached  to  each 
of  his  legs  and  arms,  while  the  Station-Master  was  trying 
to  cram  a  mail-bag  over  bis  head. 

There  was  a  very  fair  scuffle  all  round  the  booking- 
office,  and  Golightly  received  a  nasty  cut  over  his  eye 
through  falling  against  a  table.  But  the  constables  were 
too  much  for  him,  and  they  and  the  Station-Master  hand- 
cuffed him  securely.  As  soon  as  the  mail-bag  was  slipped, 
he  began  expressing  his  opinions,  and  the  head-con- 
stable said: — "Without  doubt  this  is  the  soldier-Eng- 
lishman we  required.  Listen  to  the  abuse!"  Then  Go- 
lightly asked  the  Station-Master  what  the  this  and 
the  that  the  proceedings  meant.  The  Station-Master 
told  him  he  was  "Private  John  Binkle  of  the  Regi- 
ment, 5  ft.  9  in.,  fair  hair,  gray  eyes,  and  a  dissipated  ap- 
pearance, no  marks  on  the  body,"  who  had  deserted  a  fort- 
night ago.  Golightly  began  explaining  at  great  length: 
and  the  more  he  explained  the  less  the  Station-Master 
believed  him.  He  said  that  no  Lieutenant  could  look 
such  a  ruffian  as  did  Golightly,  and  that  his  instructions 
were  to  send  his  capture  under  proper  escort  to  Umritsar. 
Golightly  was  feeling  very  damp  and  uncomfortable,  and 
the  language  he  used  was  not  fit  for  publication,  even  in 
an  expurgated  form.  The  four  constables  saw  him  safe 
to  Umritsar  in  an  "intermediate"  compartment,  and  he 


342  PI.AIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

spent  the  four-hour  journey  in  abusing-  them  as  fluently 
as  his  knowledge  of  the  vernaculars  allowed. 

At  Umritsar  he  was  bundled  out  on  the  platform  into 
the  arms  of  a  Corporal  and  two  men  of  the  Regi- 
ment. Golightly  drew  himself  up  and  tried  to  carry  off 
matters  jauntily.  He  did  not  feel  too  jaunty  in  hand- 
cuflfs,  with  four  constables  behind  him,  and  the  blood 
from  the  cut  on  his  forehead  stiffening  on  his  left  cheek. 
The  Corporal  was  not  jocular  either.  Golightly  got  as  far 
as: — "This  is  a  very  absurd  mistake,  my  men,"  when  the 
Corporal  told  him  to  "stow  his  lip"  and  come  along.  Go- 
lightly did  not  want  to  come  along.  He  desired  to  stop 
and  explain.  He  explained  very  well  indeed,  until  the 
Corporal  cut  in  with: — "You  a  orficerl  It's  the  like  o' 
you  as  brings  disgrace  on  the  likes  of  us.  Bloomin'  fine 
orficer  you  are!  I  know  your  regiment.  The  Rogue's 
March  is  the  quickstep  where  you  come  from.  You're 
a  black  shame  to  the  Service." 

Golightly  kept  his  temper,  and  began  explaining  all 
over  again  from  the  beginning.  Then  he  was  marched 
out  of  the  rain  into  the  refreshment-room  and  told  not 
to  make  a  qualified  fool  of  himself.  The  men  were  going 
to  run  him  up  to  Fort  Govindghar.  And  "running  up" 
is  a  performance  almost  as  undignified  as  the  Frog 
March. 

Golightly  was  nearly  hysterical  with  rage  and  the  chill 
and  the  mistake  and  the  handcuffs  and  the  headache  that 
the  cut  on  his  forehead  had  given  him.  He  really  laid 
himself  out  to  express  what  was  in  his  mind.  When  he 
had  quite  finished  and  his  throat  was  feeling  dry,  one  of 
the  men  said: — "I've  'eard  a  few  beggars  in  the  click 
bJind,  stiff  and  crack  on  a  bit;  but  I've  never  'eard  any 
one  to  touch  this  ere  'orficer.'  "  They  were  not  angry 
with  him.    They  rather  admired  him.     They  had  some 


PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.  343 

beer  at  the  refreshment-room,  and  offered  Golightly  some 
too,  because  he  had  "swore  won'erful."  They  asked 
him  to  tell  them  all  about  the  adventures  of.  Private  John 
Binkle  while  he  was  loose  on  the  country-side;  and  that 
made  Golightly  wilder  than  ever.  If  he  had  kept  his  wits 
about  him  he  would  have  kept  quiet  until  an  officer  came ; 
but  he  attempted  to  run. 

Now  the  butt  of  a  Martini  in  the  small  of  your  back 
hurts  a  great  deal,  and  rotten,  rain-soaked  khaki  tears 
easily  when  two  men  are  yerking  at  your  collar. 

Golightly  rose  from  the  floor  feeling  very  sick  and 
giddy,  with  his  shirt  ripped  open  all  down  his  breast 
and  nearly  all  down  his  back.  He  yielded  to  his  luck, 
and  at  that  point  the  down-train  from  Lahore  came  in, 
carrying  one  of  Golightly's  Majors. 

This  is  the  Major's  evidence  in  full: — 

"There  was  the  sound  of  a  scuffle  in  the  second-class 
refreshment-room,  so  I  went  in  and  saw  the  most  vil- 
lainous loafer  that  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  His  boots  and 
breeches  were  plastered  with  mud  and  beer-stains.  He 
wore  a  muddy-white  dunghill  sort  of  thing  on  his  head, 
and  it  hung  down  in  slips  on  his  shoulders  which  were 
a  good  deal  scratched.  He  was  half  in  and  half  out  of  a 
shirt  as  nearly  in  two  pieces  as  it  could  be,  and  he  was 
begging  the  guard  to  look  at  the  name  on  the  tail  of  it. 
As  he  had  rucked  the  shirt  all  over  his  head,  I  couldn't  at 
first  see  who  he  was,  but  I  fancied  that  he  was  a  man  in 
the  first  stage  of  D.  T.  from  the  way  he  swore  while  he 
wrestled  with  his  rags.  When  he  turned  round,  and  I  had 
made  allowances  for  a  lump  as  big  as  a  pork-pie  over 
one  eye,  and  some  green  war-paint  on  the  face,  and  some 
violet  stripes  round  the  neck,  I  saw  that  it  was  Golightly. 
He  was  very  glad  to  see  mc,"  said  the  Major,  "and  he 


344  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS. 

hoped  I  would  not  tell  the  Mess  about  it.  I  didn't,  but 
you  can,  if  you  like,  now  that  Golightly  has  gone  Home." 
Golightly  spent  the  greater  part  of  that  summer  in  try- 
ing to  get  the  Corporal  and  the  two  soldiers  tried  by 
Court-Martial  for  arresting  an  "officer  and  a  gentleman." 
They  were,  of  course,  very  sorry  for  their  error.  But  the 
tale  leaked  into  the  regimental  canteen,  and  thence  ran 
about  the  Province. 


THE  END. 


PR 
^3 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


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